


An Age of Dragons

by emthehobbit



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Explicit Language, F/M, Game of Thrones-esque, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Sexual Assault, Implied/Referenced Sexual Harassment, POV Multiple, Sexual References, Violence, sexual content in later chapters
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-02-25
Updated: 2018-02-18
Packaged: 2018-07-27 17:08:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 19
Words: 88,153
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7626898
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/emthehobbit/pseuds/emthehobbit
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When smoke rises and the Autumn winds blow, change comes to Ferelden at the tide of a new age.</p>
<p>Diverges from and expands heavily upon main story.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

# Prologue

Duncan came upon it as any man would—accidentally, and in a state of consummate terror.

But there it lied, regardless of him. Independent of him, independent of the world and all its creatures, the hole in the forest floor existed anyway. He had seen many things in his time, many terrible, unspeakable things that the Maker had not offered an answer for as of yet and, as he suspected, was not able to. This sight would be among them. 

Fire swallowed the forest surrounding it, and smoke on top of that, and the pines crumpled and fell and the destruction was all-encompassing. Spawn of the Void climbed from the hole, their boney, charred fingers clutching at its edge and pulling themselves up and into the world, as though crawling out of some hellish womb. Though he stood miles away he could hear their screaming: a high-pitched, painful sound to human ears which could have been the drawn-out death of some panicked bird. It chilled him and sent the hairs on his arm standing straight up. 

  When he could tear his eyes away from the horror to turn behind him, he was suddenly face-to face with one of the creatures. Its eyes were hazy. Otherwise, they were just a man’s. It was that shock that sent him tumbling backwards, falling, falling over the cliff.

  Before he snapped his neck on the swampy ground, he woke. 

  The Fade gave way to many awful dreams. None had been so vivid, not even with the poison that had corrupted his blood. He would tell the King about this. They should send scouting parties into the Wilds. The new camp was not safe, not until they knew their surroundings well, as the Chasind did. These Wilds were not kind to outsiders. The Wardens had lived here once, true. But it would be shameful to proceed so presumptuously when their old fortresses now lay in pieces. For all their bravado, all the Wardens had left here were ruins.

   He swung his feet over his cot and moved to slip on his boots. As he pushed his heel into place and leaned down to fasten the buckles, the ringing returned - not in his ears or head, but under his very skin. The pain deafened all else. He squeezed his eyes tight and prayed for it to leave him. The sound of a cleared throat came from the outside his tent.

  “Um, Sir, are you awake?”

  Duncan’s breath came to him all at once, and he found himself chuckling, in spite of himself.

  “Yes, Alistair. Come in. What is it?”

  The flap opened and the boy—who was now, Duncan supposed, in every right a man—poked his head through.

  “No rush, Sir, I just…well, before you leave today, I wanted to go over a few things with you. Assignments, patrol schedules and the like.”

  “Over breakfast, Alistair. Give an old man some time to get out of bed.”

  “Oh, yes sir, absolutely. Not that you’re old. You’re not old. But I mean to say I understand. Only that…never mind. I’m leaving, now.”

  A nervous smile graced his face as Duncan did his best to return a kind one and a nod, and Alistair left seeming pleased. His was the same smile, same voice, same face that Duncan had known an age ago. Was it so long now? The days of his youth had always seemed so uncomfortably familiar to him. Too close and too recent for him to sleep without pain or regret. But had known men—great men—who longed for their youth more than they longed for purpose, or for the touch of a woman, or for the weight of a child in their arms, and he was glad to not be counted among them.

  _Protect him_ , a voice said, warm and lovely and firm. And he had done what that duty demanded, had he not? Was it protection he had given the child, or an early grave? Another voice, very separate and distinct from the first but one all too familiar, said that it was a curse. They were all cursed. The Wardens offered only death to protect from death. Suffering to protect from suffering. It was all a grand circle and they were in the middle of it, little mice on a wheel running from their own shadow.

  He couldn’t believe it. He wouldn’t. The Wardens had saved him from a life of petty crime and meaninglessness and given him direction. He knew too well that without the Wardens, Alistair would be miserable. And he loved Duncan as he would a father. Duncan had kept his promise, the only way he knew how. 

  Yet that haunting song rang in his blood, like a growth he could not remove; a disease there was no cure for. It called to him just as she had said it would. It would call for them all, sooner or later. He was old, and it was his time. But he feared the day it called for Alistair. At twenty, Alistair had accepted the burdens of a Warden with too much ease and too much certainty, and for that Duncan was frightened. Frightened of when he would turn forty, or fifty, and realize that he had been tricked. Hatred was also a thing that came easy for Alistair, and Duncan knew too well that it only came easier with age. If the Maker cared any for the troubles of old men, it would only do to pray that Alistair would never count Duncan among the men who had failed him.

  Strange, that he had become apparently so self-important that in his twilight hours he found himself fearing not death, but obscurity. Perhaps that was what Genevieve had feared, too, when she saw him drive a knife through her lover’s heart. Perhaps that was why she had cursed him, and kept him, though surely never truly forgiven him. Everyone needed someone, after all. 

  But he doubted, from a place within him very deep and sincere, that the Maker cared at all. As he emerged from his tent, he gazed upon the purple early morning sky and the infinite stars and the moon that filled it. _And rightfully so_ , he thought. _Rightfully so._


	2. Solena I

# Part I

# -The Winds of Autumn-

# Solena

_ Maker, make me not a mage. Please. Let it be a dream. _

  She knew nothing of the Harrowing. Mages were not allowed to speak of it and if they did, they were not heard from again. Solena would not let herself think on it for too long. Preoccupying herself with the world’s injustices would not help her today.

Her firm resolve, for all it was worth, made it no easier for her to climb the grand staircase to the Tower’s topmost level. Her mind screamed at her to turn back and run as fast as her legs could carry her, as little sense as that made. Where would she go if she could leave, she wondered. To the half-remembered mother who did not miss her? To the father she never knew? Not bloody likely. To the far reaches of the map, she decided. To the mountains of the Anderfels, to the white beaches of Rivain. _Sand between your fingers_ , her mind chanted. _Salt water in your hair. What would that feel like, Solena? How would the world feel, if only you could live in it?_

Her breathing leveled out, and she realized she had come to a halt on the stairs. She could feel the cold sweat of her palms through the fabric of her robes as she rubbed them furiously against her thighs. Cullen, sensing her pause, stopped and looked back, his hard brow furrowing, as it did often, before softening at the sight of her.

“Solena…” he spoke, before reaching out and awkwardly grazing her arm with his glittering armored hand. The ghost of its sharp metal edges pierced her skin and she startled from him. He frowned, and offered her no further comfort. A fleeting thought told her that perhaps he did not know how.

Her eyes rose from the flaming sword on his breastplate to his face. She nodded sharply—not at him—before picking up her deep blue skirts and continuing her trudge up the winding stairwell.

The vaulted stained-glass ceiling of the Tower loomed over the room, filtering moonlight of purple and blue which shone down upon the heads of the gathered Tower officials and the stone floor beneath them. When they saw her at the top of the stairs the air shifted and the soft murmurs turned to silence, and each man and woman appeared as though they looked upon a ghost. First Enchanter Irving was who she laid her eyes on. His sympathetic smile, visible amidst his large grey beard, stretched his wrinkled skin. Irving’s kind gesture ultimately meant little however, with Knight Commander Greagoir standing immediately to his right, a scowl pulling at his face and his hand tightly gripping the pummel of his sword. Three more Templars were lined up next to him. Cullen—who wore a strange look on his face, as though he were unsure whether to go to her or his brethren—made a fourth when he joined the congregation. There was a third mage present, but she remained in the back, out of sight and in the shadows cast by the large concrete arches lining the glass—an Enchanter that Irving had likely asked to observe the event.

Her mind cursed her foolishness in this moment. She had told herself that this was a time to be brave. She had determined to leave the little blonde girl with wild hair and bare feet that once ran the rounded halls of the Tower to cower under the bed sheets this morning, along with her silly young heart. A heart that promised flight and freedom and joy. _Joy_. She would have no joy in this world, not unless she made it. Not unless she cobbled it together, like a castle in the sand, from unfortunate circumstance and books on library shelves. Her salvation would not come from any handsome knight. The only knights she knew were the ones that kept her here; kept her tame and docile. And it was knights—not monsters under the bed—that she would have to fear for the rest of her days.

Cullen had not spoken a word to her, outside of the blunt command to come with him as he had stood at her bedside around midnight. She did not know that today would be the worst day of her life. Though, when she had felt the young Templar’s hand gripping her shoulder through her groggy slumber, she knew, and dread overwhelmed her and stale bile formed in the back of her throat—but she could not cry in front of Cullen. So she did not.

“Welcome, Apprentice.” Irving offered another plastered smile, and she did not have the energy to respond in kind.

Greagoir, the most vile man she knew, took a few steps in her direction and considered her, his chest puffing out as he looked down through hooded eyes. His booming voice addressed the room.

“’ _Magic exists to serve man_ ,” he declared in Andraste’s name, “ _and never to rule over him’_. Thus spoke our lady and prophet as she cast down the Tevinter Imperium—ruled by mages who had brought the world to the edge of ruin. It is from her we learn that magic is both a gift and a curse: a mighty tool that can fell nations, but one whose use attracts the demons of the Fade, who prey upon mages and seek to use them as a gateway into this world.”

As he spoke, Solena finally took notice of the small pool, shaped like a stone birdbath, at the room’s center. She studied it curiously. A soft blue glow emanated from it like smoke from a fire, and a light, almost inaudible hum seemed to travel the distance from the pool all the way to her ear. She knew the mineral inside the pool and knew it well, but had never seen it in such great quantity.

“This is why the Harrowing exists,” Irving spoke to her. “The ritual will send you into the Fade, where a demon awaits. You face it armed with only your will.”

Solena had suspected something similar. No apprentice study was ever stressed so much as the Fade, and all its temptations. It was quite clear to her now why only so many mages ever returned from their Harrowing. She swallowed stiffly.

She turned to Irving, to see into his kind eyes and know that he was sincere. To her, she knew, he would never lie. She nodded slightly and wordlessly.

“The trial is a secret out of necessity, child. You will go through with it and succeed as I have—as countless others have. Once you pass, your test will end, and you shall be back here with us, safe and sound.” Irving reassured her with a hand on her shoulder, and if she spoke to him she knew she was like to cry, so it seemed she could only nod stupidly once more in response. “Keep your wits about you, and remember that the Fade is a realm of dreams and illusions. The spirits may rule it, but your own will is all that is real. Take heart in that.”

“The apprentice must go through her Harrowing on her own, First Enchanter,” Greagoir spat.

At once, and despite the sick feeling in her stomach, Solena removed herself from the center of the two men and strode towards the pool. As she drew closer to it she could feel her magic surge with each step until she touched the pool’s surface and the sensation in her body reached a glorious height, the likes of which she had never felt before, and very suddenly she was in the Tower no longer.

~~~

Young boys and girls visited the Fade every night to spar with heroes of legend, dance with fairies and fly upon dragons. Grown men visited it to woo buxom women they could never hope to touch in the physical world, and make sweet love upon a bed of clouds. Grown women visited to transport themselves to a life of scandalous romance and material abundance that they would never live to see in the small farming villages they grew up in. And still some nights it would be terrible nightmares that plagued the dreamers of Thedas and ripped them from whatever silly fantasy they had conjured up for themselves. 

Since she was small she had known her connection with the Fade to be wrong. At least, that’s what the other children had made abundantly clear. When they had blabbed to her instructor about Solena’s nightmares, the woman had given her a haunted stare that Solena was sure she could never hope to erase from memory. She would not have been able to keep the secret for much longer, as it turned out. At the age of ten she had begun to wake up in the dead of night screaming at a rate of three times each week. 

She had been labelled so quickly as being different from her peers that she remembered afterwards hoping, for only a brief, perfect while, that there had been some terrible mistake—that she was not a mage after all, and that she could go home. The notion was a stupid one. 

Whatever Fade that was—the one which gave Solena her never-ending dreams of the family she barely knew, the life she never led, and the stone-faced soldiers that pried her away screaming and sobbing every time—the Fade so full of raw, painful emotion that had once scarred her so greatly—that Fade was not _this_ Fade. 

Her studies had told her the Fade was a world of endless possibility, where a man could rule a nation and wake the next morning a farmer, where spirits could grant endless, wondrous power and just as easily take it away; that the Fade was an entire plane of existence to mold for oneself, and oneself alone. It was the only fantasy she had ever allowed herself as a woman grown, that maybe, one day, her nightmares would stop, and she would see the Fade as other mages saw it—this beautiful, malleable thing. It had always been clear to her that the only world in which she would ever be allowed happiness was not the one she was born into.

The landscape before her was something new—something foreign. And wondrous. The air felt still and cold but her breath was not visible. She was surrounded by icy brown tundra, which molded itself into impossible organic-looking shapes. Everything before her felt like a blind man’s hasty interpretation of reality. A lamppost that seemed to remain still while suspended in midair flickered into various states of light and darkness, casting light and shadow not only on the ground but in the forest-toned sky above her as well. She sat in the middle of a four-pillared structure of which the pillars seemed to be broken to pieces, but the rubble held together in its original form all the same. Solena crushed her knees to her chest and shivered, adjusting to the dry cold. Out of the corner of her eye, a small brown kitchen mouse scurried from one pillar to the next, but she paid it little mind. The object of her gaze was The City.

The Black City was visible and equidistant from every point in the Fade—and it was Mother Sybill who had taught her that, no mage. No matter where you stood, you could always see it above you: a hulking black mass to remain there and remind humanity of its most terrible sin. Such things were inescapable, it seemed. Even in the world of dreams.

“Someone else thrown to the wolves…”

The voice had come from the air. Solena raised her head and glanced in her immediate area. When she saw nothing, she rose and spun in search of the noise’s source.

“Ha! As fresh and unprepared as ever.”

“Who’s there?” she demanded, her brow furrowing. But as soon as she asked her question, she answered it herself. The sound had come from the ground, where the mouse now sat.

“It isn’t right that they do this, the Templars. Not to you, me, anyone.”

“To you?” Solena questioned, “You’re a talking rat.”

The mouse scoffed. “And you think you’re really here? In that body? You look like that because you think you do. I only look like this because _you_ think I do.”

Solena observed her arms and legs. In truth, her own body seemed as real as everything else in the Fade—which was to say, not at all. It had the same pale yellow hue and the same eerie, inexplicable wrongness that everything from the lamppost to the mouse before her shared. Though her limbs were physically her own she could not recognize them as such. The mouse sighed.

“It’s not your fault. You’re in the same boat I was, aren’t you? A pawn in a much larger game none of us can hope to understand.” the mouse pondered.

In a flash of bright yellow light, the mouse she had seen a moment before was now a man, with a thin mop of blonde hair and a long, crooked nose, dressed in rags. He was balding on the top of his head and had a nasty brown wart on his right nostril. It was an awful face. She wondered who this man had been—a soul clearly now lost to time and history in this never-ending expulsion of abstract thought. He threw open his arms and smiled a crooked-toothed smile. 

“Allow me to welcome you to the Fade. You can call me…well, Mouse.” He shrugged loosely.

“Not your real name, I take it?”

“Ah, well, I can’t really remember anything from…before…” he seemed suddenly very lost in his own mind, but he slowly regained his composure. “The Templars kill you if you take too long, you see. They figure you failed, and they don’t want something…getting out.”

She knew time passed slowly in the Fade. She did not know by how much. She had a sudden, overwhelming urge to get underway.

  “That’s what they did to me, I think,” he continued, “I have no body to reclaim. And you don’t have much time before you end up the same.”

Solena pushed past him. “That’s not going to happen.” 

He shuffled behind her on the path.  “You’re wrong to think you know everything! There is so much, still, that evades you. You don’t know the danger ahead!”

She pivoted towards him and cocked her head. “And what’s that?” she asked, raising an eyebrow.

“There’s something here, contained, just waiting for an apprentice like you. You have to face the creature—a demon—and resist it, if you can. That’s your way out.”

“I was told to expect as much.”

“Those men will tell you just enough to mislead you. What’s one more dead mage? A safer world, if you ask them. Take anyone at their word, and you’re a fool.”

She bit her lip, taking a moment to gnaw on the dry flesh there in hesitant contemplation. Though she soon turned her head and continued down her path. “You don’t need to worry about me.” She said to the man behind her. He laughed a long, hearty laugh.

“My dear, you’re the only thing in the world I need worry about!” he shouted after her. She stopped in her tracks. 

She shut her eyes tight and considered his words. She found them…strange. He was beside her in a flash.

“I’ll follow, if that’s alright. My chance was long ago, but you…you’re more cunning than I ever was. You may succeed where I failed.” 

He quickly transformed back into the kitchen mouse, and scurried alongside her as she walked through forests of upside-down trees set ablaze, and hopped across large chunks of rock that formed a floating path. Should she step off one, she wasn’t even sure where she should fall to, or if she would fall at all. The latter scared her more. She soon stepped off into a clearing of what seemed to have the pattern of brown cobblestone, but was a part of the ground just as the grass was and had not been placed there by any man. 

On a hill a few yards ahead of her there was a small fire burning, and a bright white translucent figure that moved between two impossibly shaped trees that were surrounded by the most wonderful flowers she had ever seen, and even more besides that floated mid-air around the fire. Marigolds, she recalled. That must be what they were. Her eyes lit up and she found her feet moving faster than before. As she neared the fire, the figure turned, and she could see that it wore the plate of a Templar. She halted.

“Another thrown into the flames and left to burn, I see. I’ve waited for you, though.” He spoke with a roaring voice that echoed as though he were shouting in a deep cave. She tried to speak, but words could not seem to form from her lips at the sight of him. He was beautiful, and bright—so bright that she could hardly see him. “This is a cowardly test. Better you were pitted against another mage, in safety, to prove your mettle with skill and strength of mind, rather than to be sent unarmed against an unknown demon. No soul is prepared for that.” Perhaps this was a spirit of valor, she thought. But a strange one, at that.

“It is templars that force the Harrowing,” she reminded him, gesturing to his plate.

“Aye, that it is. You are not the first to face such twisted trials and unfavorable odds. Nor shall you be the last, I suspect. I see a great battle in your future against a powerful creature of the Fade. Let it be known, no matter what comes, I wish you victory.” His response made her curious. He spoke earnestly, full-heartedly—as if he knew her.

“Thank you,” she told him.

Snow fell from a green sky, and both looked up to watch it. Suddenly, they stood knee-deep in the stuff, and the sun set around them. Inexplicably, tears fell from her eyes.

“Shed no more tears,” the figure said. “We two will meet again.”

“When?” she asked desperately, as he faded from her.

“I am sorry,” said the wind, and he was gone—the snow and the sunset with him.

“An odd fellow, that one,” said Mouse from her side, far below her. 

They continued walking.

As they moved further and further, an eerie whistle of wind could be heard, even though she could feel none on her skin, and the Fade seemed to turn darker and more foreboding, even though the sky remained the same bright shade of green. Around her she saw ancient ruins threatening to fade out of existence as they lost opacity, and piles of massacred bodies as tall as trees overcame them. She heard wolves howling in the distance—prowling at the fringes of the Fade—and the sounds of a violent battle that was nowhere in sight. Decaying toadstools of an abnormally large size surrounded her as though they were a forest of their own, and eventually another, smaller clearing came into view, and a sleeping bear lay in the center. She inched closer as quietly as possible.

“Be cautious…” Mouse whispered, “There is another spirit here who may help us…I believe him honorable, though I do not think he is as benevolent as the last…”

But as she drew closer the bear awakened anyway…and it was no bear. As she approached she saw its claws were the size of its paw, its eyes were bloodshot, and its fur was matted and decayed and torn away so as to see bloody flesh poking out across its entire body. When it spoke, its voice seemed as though it were coming from all directions, surrounding her and making her feel as small as her companion.

“Hmm…” it chuckled malevolently from where it relaxed on the ground, “so you are the mortal being hunted? And the small one…is he to be a snack for me?”

“I don’t like this,” Mouse spoke, transforming again into a man. “I take it back. He’s not going to help us. We should go.”

The beast slowly rose and stretched its front legs as it let out a yawn which sounded vaguely like a growl. “Oh, no matter,” it spoke, “The creature will find you eventually, and perhaps…perhaps there will even be scraps left.” The beast’s mouth stretched into a wide grin which showed off a full set of yellow teeth as sharp as blades imbedded into crimson gums. 

She had a thought—a vague, fleeting one, and against her better judgement, she decided to act on it. “Why wait for scraps?” she challenged. “Come and get me now.”

Mouse let out a nervous yelp, but the beast only furrowed its brow, and after a passing moment, yawned again. “You’ll only…run away. I’ll not waste time with a chase, not even…for a meal.” It settled back down in its resting position again, and at once she knew she was speaking to a demon of sloth.

“Begone,” it commanded, “Surely you have better things to do. You are a fly in the ointment, and I tire of you already. You have lost your battle before it has even begun, girl.”

She took a step closer to him, and Mouse squealed again. “I need help defeating the demon. If you aid me, I’ll leave you in peace.”

“You are a mage,” the bear yawned. “For all that is worth. Go. Use your _wiles_. You do not need my help.

“Not me. Mouse.” She explained.

“What?” Mouse squeaked.

“Whatever…do you mean?” the demon drawled.

“Teach Mouse to take on your form. To be like you. He could help me, instead of just standing there, miserable.” She jabbed, persistent in her efforts. She only had so much time, true. But time wouldn’t matter if the demon killed her as soon as she confronted it. 

“Like me?” Sloth asked. “Ah…I suppose. Mice are not intelligent enough to think for themselves; forge their own identities. And besides, Mouse, you let go of your corporeal form years ago.”

“I…I don’t…” Mouse garbled. 

“Ah… perhaps he doesn’t wish to learn. Perhaps that is for the best. Teaching is so…exhausting.”

“If you want me gone, teach him.” She repeated once more.

“Fine. But…while you’re here…we might as well…make it interesting. Answer these riddles three, and I will teach your small friend. Fail, and I will devour you both. The choice…is yours.”

She internally groaned, but agreed. Perhaps making a deal with the demon was not her brightest moment, but she needed what help she could muster.

“My…first riddle, is this: 

_ I have seas with no water, coasts with no sand, _

_ Towns without people, and mountains without land. _

_ What am I?” _

__

She answered promptly. He grumbled. “Hm…correct. Let’s move on. The second:

“ _While you live, we cannot part,_

_ I live inside you, locked forever in your heart. _

_ What am I?” _

She responded once more. He sighed. “Yes, very well. One more try, shall we?

__

_ Often will I spin a tale, never will I charge a fee. _

_ I’ll amuse you an entire eve, but, alas, you won’t remember me. _

_ What am I?” _

When she responded, he appeared dismal. “Alas, you are…correct. Amazing, really. Perhaps you really don’t need my help. But, you’ve won my challenge, and proven yourself an amusing distraction. Come here, Mouse. And listen carefully.”

~~~

She sat leaning on the stem of a toadstool picking at her fingernails as Mouse learned in the clearing not but a few feet away. It felt to her as though half an hour had passed, but who was to say her sense of time had any merit in the Fade? A small part of her dared to wonder if the Templars had killed her by now. Would she know? Would she feel it? A feeling in the pit of her gut hoped desperately that she would, so she would not instead be stuck here for an eternity, wandering aimlessly and hoping against hope that one day she would wake up. But she heard heavy footsteps behind her and saw the form of Sloth approaching as she stood. It was Mouse’s voice that emerged from him.

“He was right. This was almost too easy,” Mouse said. 

“Come on. Let’s go.”

They pushed through the edge of the toadstool forest quickly enough, and soon emerged into a ring of fire set upon volcanic ash. 

“This is the home of the rage demon. It must be the one you were meant to confront. Be— “

The ground trembled and lava rose vertically from the circle’s center, coalescing into the head of a snake. Solena stabilized herself on the shaking earth. 

“Ah, someone has come to me at last.” The voice was distorted and malevolent. The demon laughed, though it had no mouth that moved with it. “For eons I have roamed this tired land alone, waiting for the companionship of a human. So, this creature is your offering, Mouse? Another plaything, as per our arrangement?”

Solena’s head darted to look at Mouse as she furrowed her brow.

“I’m not offering you anything! I don’t have to help you anymore!” Mouse cried.

“And after all those wonderful meals we two have shared! Now suddenly the mouse has changed his mind!” the demon exclaimed.

“I’m not a mouse now. I don’t need to bargain with you.” Mouse retorted, more sure of himself this time. 

“We shall see…” the demon lunged for her, and she jumped out of the way, channeling mana through her staff as soon as she was on her feet again. Mouse jumped for the throat of the demon, gnashing at it with his borrowed set of teeth.

She knew that a fight in the Fade shouldn’t have to mirror one in the physical world. If she willed the demon dead, that will should make it so. And soon enough, it did. A powerful blast from her staff—more powerful than anything she had ever cast before—sent the demon tumbling to the ashen ground.

Mouse stood over the fallen demon and in another flash, transformed back into a man. He turned to face her. “You did it—you actually did it! When you came, I hoped that maybe you might be able to—oh but I never dared hope that—"

She stormed over and grabbed him violently by collar. He yelped in surprise.

“How many came before me? How many died because of your trickery?” she demanded.

“No, I—What? No, the others, they…they barely had a chance! It was part of the test, and they failed!” he choked. “The Templars, they set them up to fail! Like they tried with you—ow!”

She let him go, but held the point of her staff at his chest. 

“Look, I regret my part in it, but you have shown me that there is hope! You are _so much more_ than you know—more than they’ve told you that you were!”

“You’ve been tailing me this whole time, just waiting for your chance.”

“I—what? No, you—you don’t understand, you don’t nearly comprehend! You defeated a demon—willed it out of existence! You completed your test! A test that is, in no uncertain terms, rigged for you to almost certainly fail. I can see…I can see it now, as clear as day that, with time, you will become a power with no equal! This world shall be yours, sweet girl. And maybe there is hope in that new world for someone as small and as…forgotten as me. If you…want to help. I think…I think there may, after all, be a way for me to _leave_ here—for good! For me to step foot in the physical world, to get a foothold outside, I would be…I would be forever grateful. You just...you just need to want to _let me in_.”

  She glared at him. “The Harrowing is designed so that I shouldn’t remain in the Fade after passing my test. It’s designed to kick me out.”

“Precisely. Which is why we need to— “

“I’m still here.”

“Wh-what?”

“The rage demon was never my test.”

“What are you talking— _of course_ it was. What else in here could harm a—a mage of your potential, my pet? You are unlike any I have— ”

“You were.” 

Mouse was taken aback, but not for long. His lips curved upwards into a malicious, hungry grin.

“…you _are_ a smart one.” The voice changed, as did the air around them. Mouse began to tower over her as he had not before, and the grin he wore grew to fold over half his face, making him unrecognizable. His skin fell off in slimy, black, ashy layers and beneath was a different being entirely.

“Simple killing is a warrior’s job,” he boomed, louder than the valor spirit, even louder than Sloth, “The real dangers of this world are preconceptions, careless trust… _pride_.”

In an instant, the light and world around her disappeared, and Mouse had evaporated into smoke, and the smoke surrounded her and encompassed her form and would not allow her to breathe.

“Keep your wits about you, mage. True tests never end.”

The smoke cleared, and it was over.


	3. Bethany I

# Bethany

Marian’s hunt had not gone well, it seemed, and the rest of the day was tense (to say the least) as a result. Her sister’s responses to their mother’s inquiries were short and irritated. They ate last week’s boar in silence, save for the light crackle of the fireplace. Marian violently pushed her chair out after finishing quickly and exited the room. Carver rolled his eyes. When Bethany heard the front door slam she knew she would not see her sister until the next morning.

It seemed when Marian got in these moods, no one was happy. Later, when Mother sat by the fire knitting, she gave what she must have thought to have been a warm smile in response to Bethany’s simple jest. But the pain and self-blame in her mother’s eyes as she turned back to the needles in her lap was all Bethany saw, and no sight in the world hurt her more. Bethany had to remove herself from their hut before the tears came. She resolved to find Carver. He was somehow able to ignore Marian, so it made him very easy to talk to on days like today.

It was Autumn, and night had fallen. The sky was filled with stars and the air was fresh. Bethany could hear the far-away sounds of a dog barking, and drunken men stumbling out of the tavern as their wives reprimanded them and dragged them back home. Luckily, their cabin was set at a bit of a distance from the nighttime goings-on of Lothering and its denizens, or they’d never get any sleep. But Bethany was glad for the noise. She was glad for the stars, too. She was glad for the sight of her brother sitting on a tree stump and sharpening his sword. She was even glad to be here for Marian’s foul temper.

She had never been inside the Tower. She had never even been outside of Lothering, not in all her eighteen years. But she knew she did not want to go there. It was why she hid her staff underneath the floorboards. It was why a spell had not been cast from her hands since she was a child. Father had never talked about his time in Kinloch Hold, but the haunted look that remained in his eyes from the day Bethany showed her first signs until his very last told her that his mission in life had been to keep her from it.

Carver did not have the magic that ran so strongly in their bloodline, nor did Marian. That was something she alone had shared with Father, and Carver perhaps had resented the time their father had spent training her instead of raising them both. Training her on how to safely use her magic, but also how to hide it, and, most importantly, how to run from Templars. But still, Carver had been bitter.

Marian was simply not that way, though. She had had seven years with father all to herself before Bethany and Carver were born, and at seven she was no longer hiding behind Mother’s skirts or holding Father’s hand. No, when the twins were born, Marian was left alone to do as she pleased, and she ate up every minute of it, or so Mother said, and when Carver got to be that age, he soon joined her. If there was one thing that ate at Bethany’s mind when it came to her siblings, it was that they had always been allowed to do what she was not. She supposed she had Father to thank for that.

   But Father was gone. Murdered by Templars not a mile outside of their home, in front of the eyes of his children and his wife. He had insisted, as his dying act, that his family had had no knowledge of his magic. So they were left in peace to return to their cabin, where Malcolm Hawke was buried that same night. He was gone, and though Bethany had hoped that in such tragic times she and her siblings would bond in caring for their mother, it seemed she was left to that task on her own. Carver joined the King’s army, and was called away constantly. And Marian…Marian would leave on a hunt one day and not come back for a fortnight. Marian would go into town to buy eggs only to be caught by Bethany later that afternoon rolling around in the hay behind their home with some stable boy she barely knew. Marian would drink herself half to death at the tavern and Bethany would wake the next morning to see she had crawled into bed beside her. She loved her sister, but she felt as though she barely knew her.

   She and Carver had been brought into this world together, though, so she liked to think she knew him. He was only older than her by a minute or so, but he liked to hold that over her. They were all protective of her, but Carver had a ferocity about him that she didn’t like to see. He once beat a boy from the village within an inch of his life when he and his two friends had accosted her on her way home. She had screamed and cried before Carver had eventually stopped, and back at the cabin, once he had shaken off his bloodlust, he held her as she cried and until she fell asleep.

   She approached Carver now, as the sound of rock sliding against steel grew louder and the left of Carver’s face came into view, lit up by the lantern outside of their home. She knew, objectively, that her brother was handsome. He was told so nearly as much as she was told she was pretty. They shared the same dark brown hair, the same hazel eyes. But Carver’s features were hard and chiseled where hers were soft. Her hair was long and softly curling where his was straight and cut shorter than any man she had ever seen.

   Marian was rarely ever told she was pretty, but Bethany knew that she was, in her way. She had the black hair and steel grey eyes of their father, and looked more like him than her siblings. And Father had been handsome. She remembered thinking, too, that her mother was the most beautiful woman alive. Though it probably wasn’t true, you wouldn’t be able to tell one way or the other now. With Father’s death came the decline of Mother’s features. She was still handsome, but her hair had turned grey and she grew wrinkles where Bethany knew she should not have them at her age. She was only forty-five.

   “A copper for your thoughts, sister?” Carver asked, glancing in her direction.

   She bit her lip. “It’s lovely out tonight,” she noted.

   “It is.”

   Bethany found comfort in the momentary silence between them. She always did. With Mother, she felt she needed to say something lest she drop her needles and burst into tears all of the sudden. With Marian, silence was awkward. Silence spoke to the unfamiliarity that already existed between them. With Carver, it was who they were. It was a mutual understanding and trust. It felt like home.

   But soon, a different thought plagued her mind, and she found herself twiddling her thumbs and holding back tears. The sound of her own sniffling betrayed her, and Carver immediately stopped what he was doing to look at her.

   “Must you and Marian both go?” she asked with a voice smaller than she had intended. “It’s just, I’ll be here all alone with Mother, and— “

   In an instant the sword dropped to the grass and Carver had her in his arms, cradling her head against his chest and rocking her softly as her tears wet his tunic.

   “Hush now, sister. Hush.” He soothed.

   She exited his embrace and attempted to dry her tears.

   “I’m being silly,” she said, “It’s been Mother and I for years.”

   “Well, you’ve had Marian too.”

   “You know that’s not true.” She shot back.

   “I know Marian can be…vexing. If you’re angry at me, Beth, I understand. Just know that I’m the one that has to be on the road with her for days and I’m not bloody well looking forward to it.” The ghost of a smile appeared on his lips, and she mimicked it on hers.

   “Serves you right.” She muttered.

   His smile faded, and he placed a hand on her upper arm. “I hate to leave like this. When we’re gone, tell Mother I’m sorry for how Marian’s acted today, and that she means well, and that we love you both very much, and we’ll be home as soon as the King allows.”

   “You can tell her yourself, right now.”

   “She’s still sore over Marian. I don’t think she’d listen.”

   He began walking with her, and silence befell them again. The moon was bright and cast a beautiful glow on the trees that stood to the right of their home. Bethany picked one and leaned against it, twiddling her thumbs again before sliding down the trunk until she was sitting on the grass. Carver soon joined her, leaning on the same tree but facing a different direction.

   “When do you think the King will allow you to return?” she asked offhandedly.

   “Whenever he’s certain there’s no Darkspawn about, I suppose.”

   “And when do you think that will be?”

   “I don’t know, Bethany. He seems rather convinced that they’re popping out of the Wilds like flies. It might take some time. Some ranger parties. The man’s paranoid. It could—yeah, it could take some time.”

   “Why? You don’t think he’s right?”

   “Oh, come off it, Beth. Haven’t been any darkspawn in four hundred years. You afraid there’s one hiding under your bed?” he tickled her arm and she swatted him away.

   “No. Just…it all seems so strange. Folk say he’s calling on the Grey Wardens. Sister Leliana said that—”

   “What? That he’s leading them all on some valiant march, like in her bloody songs? I told you not to listen to that woman, Beth, she’s nutty.”

   “I think she’s fine.”

   “Well, there aren’t any darkspawn, so Sister Leliana’s Grey Wardens don’t have anything to worry about even if they have somehow crawled out of whatever holes they fled away into. Do they?”

   She gave an exasperated sigh. “I guess not.”

   “Look, I’m sorry for doing this to you and Mother. But I know you’ll both be fine. Marian needs to…Marian needs to get out of this bloody town and do something with herself. For the good of someone other than herself. I’m hoping that when she gets back that she’ll snap out of…whatever mood she’s been in since…since Father.”

   “She’s been in that mood for ten years, Carver.”

   “I know. And it has to stop. She can’t continue on like this and provide for you and Mother.”

   “I can provide for us. When you’re gone, I can—”

   Carver gave her a pained look, and she knew what that meant. She didn’t care.

   “I need to get out of this town as much as Marian does. Be on my own, like she always is, like she’s so bloody _fond_ of being.” Carver winced at her language, but said nothing. “I’ve _never_ known that, Carver. Father taught me enough, I can provide for myself. I’m sick of everyone else always risking everything to keep me safe. That’s not their job anymore, it’s not _your_ job,” she turned towards him completely now.

   “Beth— “

   “Mark my words, I don’t want to die in this cabin, Carver.”

   “And where would you go, Bethany? With what coin? A woman traveling alone is dangerous, not just because you’re a mage, have you thought about _that_? What about when you have to defend yourself?”

   “I _know_ how to— “

   “With magic, yes, but you can’t use that, can you?”

   Perhaps she really hadn’t thought it through. Perhaps she…perhaps she was just being stupid. Like she had always been. Carver and Marian knew the world, they knew how it worked and how to make the most of their lives with what they were given. Bethany knew nothing. The voice in her head that told her that Carver was right only encouraged the hot sting of tears in her eyes. His face softened at the sight of them.

   “Maker, Beth, I…I’m sorry. I know how you feel. Just…wait until we get back, okay? Everything…everything will be better once we’re back. Everyone will have their heads, and we can have this conversation around the table like adults, alright? I know you need to leave. I get that. It’s just…it’s just not been easy.”

   He stood up as she did and he came around to her side of the tree to wrap her in his arms once again. She breathed in and out and felt the rise and fall of his chest with her own, and all at once she was so grateful just to be alive.

   “But Beth, it’ll get easier. I promise.”


	4. Cullen I

# Cullen

The deep sigh of relief came to him when Solena fell to the ground from her standing state next to the pool. It had been hours, and he could see morning light through the stained glass, but she was out. She had passed. He knew she had. She was bright—brighter than any other apprentice he’d seen come through here, probably even some of the senior mages. His suspicions were confirmed after Irving had examined her and nodded at Knight Commander Greagoir, offering a small smile.

   Greagoir did not return it. Instead, he charged Cullen with carrying her back to the apprentices’ quarters and depositing her in her bunk. She would be out for the rest of the day, most like. The Harrowing took a physical toll on mages like nothing he had ever seen. And nothing had ever pained him more than seeing her subjected to it.

   When he set her down on the blue linens, he had almost successfully resisted the urge to stay, truly. He was merely three steps from the archway that led into the hall when, in weakness, he turned back to look at her. He was supposed to report back to the Knight Commander. He shouldn’t linger. But Maker, _Maker_ , how he wanted to.

 When he looked at her he felt an ache in his chest that made him nearly fall to his knees. When she spoke to him his mind clouded and his lungs forgot how to produce the air with which to breathe. The sight of her blonde hair falling in haphazard strands over her face and pillow had him convinced that she must be Andraste herself taking earthly form only to tempt him. Either that or, well, some desire demon.

No…no, that’s not what she was. The light of her would shame any demon back to the deepest reaches of the Fade. He would know. At night as he lay in his cot, when his own demons came to haunt him, he would bring her face to the forefront of his mind, and all at once he was home. He was standing in the hills by Honnleath, feeling the tall grass on his ankles, tucking his sister into bed. He was staring at the Frostbacks from outside his bedroom window, their snowy peaks reaching high into the night sky. He was holding his brother’s child in his arms. He was twelve and happy forever, and he never left home, not for anything. _That_ was what she did to him.

With a tentative hand, he reached down to her face and brushed her hair behind her ear.

He had known from the moment he had laid eyes on her, and every moment he was with her from that point onward that he must be a masochist. One day this obsession would ruin him, he knew that to be true. It was not something he was proud of. If his hidden feelings for her were uncouth, then his outward fondness for her and their—dare he say friendship, was entirely lacking in propriety and tact. He knew he shouldn’t be sneaking her tea and raspberry cakes from the kitchens after dark. He knew he shouldn’t grant her extra time in the library. He knew he shouldn’t, well, _talk_ to her. But she was so _different_ from any mage he had ever met. She was…humble, and sweet, and kind, and intelligent, with a fervor for knowledge that he had never known from anyone, and so, _so_ beautiful. And even…demure in a way that only seemed to make her more attractive. She was _good_. She was pure goodness, and—

The sound of a cleared throat from the archway startled him to attention from where he sat on the edge of her bed. To his luck, it wasn’t Greagoir, or even a fellow Templar, for that matter. It was that mage—what was his name again? _Jowan,_ that was it. A friend of Solena’s. A bit too friendly, if Cullen had anything to say about it.

“Ser Cullen,” he croaked, nothing in his voice that would betray his feelings towards what he just saw, “I’ll look after her, if you don’t mind.”

   Cullen said nothing in response. Jowan stared apprehensively at him. He gave the mage half a nod, and promptly exited the room.

   He was reckless—careless—and this woman was making him so. _Damn her_. He had to clear his head. But the Knight Commander would be waiting for him.

   His armored feet carried him down the hallway to the Knight Commander’s office, but the noise he heard came from behind Irving’s door, and one of the voices was decidedly Greagoir’s.

   “…exceptional test…”

   “…didn’t notice anything special.” That was Greagoir.

   “…typical of an apprentice…her age?”

   “…talented…brightest student I’ve had…incredible power...”

   “Is it...interest to…?”

   “Perhaps…files…”

   “What of it?”

   “…things to say…name.”

   He knocked on the door and the voices stopped.

   “You may enter,” called Irving.

The office was spacious, but the space was filled by tables upon tables of clutter. Stacks of books littered every surface, as there had clearly been no more room for them on the packed bookshelves that lined the walls. Irving’s modest desk was similarly covered in books and papers and magical artifacts that Cullen would not understand if he looked at them until the next age. The room itself, like every other in the tower, was windowless and drab. The featureless grey stone stretched from floor to vaulted ceiling, broken up only by the mortar between the bricks. Candles were spaced throughout the room, providing light that glowed blue.

   As it happened, there were three men in Irving’s office. The third was not one Cullen had seen before, and certainly no Templar. He had sun-kissed skin and brown hair tied behind his head, and a neatly trimmed beard with two small braids hanging from its front. He must not have been any older than forty. His ears were pierced with lurid golden jewelry that nearly blinded Cullen who stood three yards away. His armor was white with silver plating, and he wore a red sash across his hips. He could see two ornate silver hilts peeking out from where the swords rested on his back.

   “Ah, Cullen,” noted Greagoir.

   “Does she rest?” asked Irving.

   “Yes. I left her with an apprentice.”

   “Good. She’ll need it.” Irving seemed pleased.

   “Cullen, allow me to introduce Warden Commander Duncan. He has ridden here from Ostagar, on the King’s command.” Greagoir interjected.

   “A pleasure, Ser.” Cullen nodded to the man.

   “Likewise. I understand you attended the Harrowing of Solena Amell.” Duncan’s voice was cool and collected, open and friendly, and he had a glimmer of interest in his eye when he spoke of Solena that Cullen did not particularly like, but would not think on until much later.

   “I did, Ser.”

   “And what was your impression?” he questioned.

   “It went rather smoothly, Ser. Rather quickly, in fact. Quicker than most. She was very efficient, as it were.”

   “And your impression of her, as an apprentice?”

   “She’s…very bright, Ser. Demonstrates a great deal of restraint under pressure. She has…a great deal of potential.” He tried desperately not to sound as though he were too observant of her. Greagoir eyed him intently.

   “Hm. Thank you for sharing your thoughts. If you’ll all excuse me, I think I’d like to retire to my quarters for the time being. It had been a long and arduous journey.” said Duncan.

   “Of course. Rutherford, escort Duncan to the guest’s chambers on your way to your post.” Greagoir commanded.

   “Follow me, Ser.” Cullen did as he was bid, though he was anxious to be anywhere else. The walk to Duncan’s quarters was a quiet one though, and it was still in the early morning hours so few mages were milling about. It gave Cullen time to think. He had not questioned it when Duncan was introduced as the Commander of the Grey, but it seemed a strange thing now. Grey Wardens, as far as Cullen knew, were extinct for more than a century. What was this man even Commander of? Clearly something, if he rode here on the King’s orders. He looked bloody important enough, what with the shine on his armor. He supposed he was in no position to criticize—a Templar’s silver armor was certainly more gaudy than the dress of the Queen of Antiva.

   “Here we are, Ser,” he gestured to the door they now stood in front of.

   “Thank you kindly,” said Duncan, “If I may, can I ask another question, regarding Amell, that is?”

   “Certainly.”

   “She is nineteen years of age, correct?”

   “Yes Ser, I believe so.” Of course he knew. She was the same age as he. When she had discovered how young he was she’d giggled and looked up at him curiously through her thick lashes. When he asked her what she thought was so funny, she said she’d never met a Templar so young. Clearly she hadn’t met many Templars. When he was a boy of thirteen, he was the oldest in the training camp. He was also the least prepared.

“A fair age. How many combat experiences has the girl witnessed in her time here? Practical defensive or offensive magic? Certainly something of note?”

   Cullen was caught a bit off-guard by the question, but answered to the best of his ability.

   “Our instructors are…very thorough, Ser. She has learned a vast number of spells for practical combat use. But we do not imitate combat inside the tower. She has never seen a fight.”

   “Ah. I…see,” Duncan responded, clearly disappointed by the answer, “Very well. Thank you, Ser Cullen. You are dismissed.”

   His post was just down the hall, but he needed to stop by his quarters for…some relief. His head was ringing and his hands were shaking so much that he was sure Duncan must have noticed. He flew open the door of the barracks and scoured his desk for the small wooden box he knew he had placed there…somewhere. After ripping several drawers out, he had found it. He opened the top to reveal the large needle and other equipment that he had hastily stuffed inside.

   He quickly poured the iridescent blue substance into the syringe, gave it a few taps, and injected it slowly into the crook of his arm. He threw his head back and took the deepest of breaths, feeling his headache instantly vanish and an unmistakable calm flood through his body.

   Another Templar—Giles, was his name, burst through the door to the barracks, laughing at the joke of a friend who was standing outside. As he turned and saw Cullen, he snorted.

   “Couldn’t wait a few more hours, eh, Rutherford? Sun’s barely up yet!”

   Cullen ripped the needle out of his arm in frustration. He didn’t enjoy other people watching, and certainly not sneering at him as he did his injections. He growled, while stuffing the needle back in the box and locking it back in his desk.

“Hey now, how’s that hot piece you fancy? Heard she had her Harrowing this morning. Didn’t hear much else though, so must not have been too nasty.” Giles had removed his armor and was crawling into his bunk.

“Fuck you, mate,” his eyes narrowed at his comrade.

Giles pulled the sheets up over him and looked rather pleased with himself as he closed his eyes. “Mmm…I’ll be dreaming of her soon, Maker willing.”

Cullen wore a look of disgust, but said nothing else as he ran a hand through his hair and left the barracks. He headed to his post.

~~~

   The next few hours dragged on. Breakfast in the main hall had come and gone, so he had to deal with apprentices loitering in the hall on their way to class and snogging in the corners. The morning shifts were always fairly uneventful. The older mages, the ones who would vandalize or shag in the library or, Maker forbid, try to escape, didn’t come out until later at night. He never saw anything like that, though. Mostly senior Templars covered the night. He was almost grateful for it.

   After his lunch, he moved to a different hall for an equally uneventful shift, which was just about to end when the subject of most of his thoughts exited the apprentice quarters to his left. There was no one else in the hall, so speaking to her was not a point of concern.

   “Hello, Cullen,” she greeted him, rather coolly. He could not quite understand why, so he ignored it.

   “Solena, it’s good to see you awake so early.” He gave her a small smile.

   “Early? It’s three in the afternoon.” She raised an eyebrow.

   “Most…don’t wake up after their Harrowing until the next night.” He explained.

   “Yes, and the rest don’t wake up at all.”

   Her icy eyes seemed to bore into him.

   “Have I…offended you in some way?” he asked, timidly.

   “…No, Cullen. You have not offended me. I should not have expected any words of reassurance from you last night, I suppose. You did your job, you did it well, and that was that.” She was clearly angry with him, but she did not yell. He had never seen her yell at anyone.

   “Solena, I…Last night, I was assigned to—” he could barely say what he meant to. She looked at him expectantly. “I was to be the one to…to cut you down, should… _trouble_ arise.”

   “Should I have become possessed, you mean.” She clarified.

   “Yes. I…it would have been unseemly for me to associate with you under…under the circumstances. I apologize for that.”

   “As do I.”

   “What? What for?”

   “I’m sure it would have given you great pleasure to kill your first mage. I apologize for robbing you of that opportunity.”

   Cullen had never been more taken aback in his entire life. He rushed to reassure her.

   “What? No! I—I would _never_ — “

   “But you would, wouldn’t you? Had _trouble_ arisen.” The expression on her face was damned unreadable.

   “I…I would do my duty, yes. But it would give me no pleasure, I assure you.”

   “Truly? I’ve heard the opposite. I’ve heard mage killing is one of the greatest pleasures in the world, for a Templar. They say it’s something with the lyrium we both take. Some chemical that makes killing us an almost…sensual experience.” She had gotten closer to him. When had she gotten closer to him? When had she put her hand on his chestplate? Her breath was on his lips.

   “I…I…” any hope Cullen had of forming words at this point was shot.

   “Enjoy your afternoon, Ser.” There was venom in her voice. But by the time he registered that, her presence left him all at once, and his mind cleared. He seemed frozen to the spot. He thanked the Maker that the tightness of his breeches was hidden by his plated armor.

 


	5. Morrigan I

# Morrigan

   The Wilds were always more glorious when she saw them through the eyes of a raven. The feeling of soaring above the trees and seeing just barely past the edge of the known world granted a sense of possessiveness. These Wilds were _hers._ For no one else seemed to want them, but they meant more to her than all the pretty baubles in the world. They were, perhaps, the only thing she truly owned.

   As she soared, she could feel the crisp fall air under her dark wings. The tall pines fluttered in the breeze, and off in the distance the sunset filled the sky with rich purples and oranges. But not everything she had seen as she flew that day filled her with joy. Smoke gathered on the horizon. A dark mist swept through her woods that she could not understand. Something was not right. Something had been very, very wrong for longer than she wanted to admit. Perhaps, one day soon, she would become a wolf and travel all the way to where the smoke rose. Then she could see what plagued her Wilds, and she could rain hell down upon them.

   But supper would be ready any moment. Her investigation would have to wait, lest Mother get impatient.

   Morrigan flew down below the trees and landed on the forest floor on two legs. She brushed off her black patchwork leather skirt and straightened the crooked bun that held up her ebony hair. She rolled her slim neck back and forth, getting rid of the ache that had grown there.  It was a quick jaunt back to the hut she lived in with her mother, and she jogged the distance. She ran her hand along the stumps of the trees and smiled to herself as a strong gust of autumn wind pushed her forward.

   The sight of five dead birds all in a row on the forest floor caused her pause. She had seen the likes of this before, a few times in the past month. And it hadn’t always been birds. She grimaced and shook her head. _Later,_ she promised herself, shutting and squeezing her eyes tight. She would deal with this later.

   She arrived outside the hut faced with her mother’s back, who stood hunched over their cauldron with a bowl of stew in her hand.

   “Morrigan!” she cried to the forest, cupping her hand over her mouth to make her shrill voice travel.

   “I am here, Mother,” said Morrigan, already standing over the pot and taking in its smells.

   “Oh, good, you’ve decided to join me, have you? Where have you been, girl?” croaked the witch.

   “Trying to see what it is that haunts our Wilds, Mother. Lest you have forgotten that smoke rises to the south and animals die by the hundreds,” spat Morrigan as she made herself a bowl.

   “Hmph. I thought you had a bigger head on your shoulders. The King gathers his army to the north. He gathers _Grey Wardens._ Do you think he does so simply because he has nothing better to do?”

   Morrigan kept her thoughts to herself. She wished to speak to her mother no longer than she had to. And, in truth, what she said had worried her. She had pushed the thought of darkspawn to the very back of her mind. It was too terrible to imagine, and too unlikely. No, she would have to see it with her own eyes. Tonight, she would go, she promised herself. The King was a fool—what did he know? Whatever threat lurked, she could handle it well enough.

   They ate inside, and in relative silence. When her mother finished, she stood and stomped out the fire in their fireplace.

   “We must make sure none of the King’s soldiers wander our way,” she said as she did, “If they do, we shall have to defend ourselves. As we always have.”

   “If I see any, I shall take care of them,” Morrigan resolved.

   “No,” her Mother said quickly, “Only if they get too close. If they are here for their darkspawn, do not interfere. We two cannot stand against an entire horde alone, girl.”

   Morrigan rolled her eyes but once again said nothing. Her mother left the hut soon after, nowhere to be found. Morrigan did not care where she had gone. She often left unceremoniously, sometimes for weeks or more, and sometimes Morrigan did not even take notice.

   When Morrigan left the hut, the sky was dark, but the moonglow was enough for her to see with. _Perfect_ , she thought. She would need the cover of darkness for what she had planned. It took one glance above the tree line to know where she was headed, and with that, she left with a sprint. She was a few paces into the woods when her feet became paws, her body became covered with silver fur, and her nose grew out from her face. She knew the spot where the smoke came from. She could not make the journey tonight, but she knew a good vantage point that would tell her all she needed to know.

   Her feet hit the ground in a steady rhythm that made her heart swell. With the ears of a wolf she could hear each leaf that crunched beneath her paws; each bird that pushed through the leaves of trees in a panic as she grew near. Yes, she was fearsome this way.

   Not to say she didn’t fancy herself as fearsome otherwise. But men, as they were want to do, took her for a silly young girl lost in the woods. Something they could rescue and protect, and take back to her wealthy parents upon which they would be granted with a handsome reward, and maybe even her hand. That was the story she often went with, anyway. Before she lured them back to their hut and Mother cut their hearts out.

   In many ways, she felt more herself when she became something else. More fearsome, more perceptive, more free. When she would catch a rabbit between her claws and rip it in two by the neck, she could feel the blood rush to her head and the bond between her and her Wilds grow one bit stronger. She felt _ravenous_. She was home.

   She lost track of time in animal form, that was true. As Morrigan grew aware of her surroundings she realized she must have been miles from their hut, and was nearing her destination.

   The smell of blood and rotting corpses filled her nose and she began to prowl with caution. At the sight of the first body, she recoiled. Not at its ghastly visage, but at its mere presence. It was a soldier, she noted. He should not be here, not this far from Ostagar. As she walked between two trees and into the clearing she had once been familiar with, she could no longer recognize it. Bodies littered the ground up to the cliff—all soldiers. She turned and saw three more hanging limply from trees, and shuddered.

   As she edged towards the cliff, a different corpse drew her attention. It was no man. It had a body short and stout, and wore armor the make of which she had never seen before. It was sharp with hard edges and had the color of rust accenting its dark plate. Its skin, colored with greens and browns, looked like a man’s that had been boiled or stabbed beyond recognition. Its eyes were mere sockets; it had nostrils with no nose and a mouth with no lips.

   When her paw reached out to touch its clawed hand, the beast jolted and screeched with the high-pitched sound of a flock of crows. In a panic, she latched her teeth onto its neck and ripped violently at the skin until it separated entirely, spilling blood onto the dirt, and the beast stilled.

   A drowsy feeling overtook her, and she slowly lifted her head to see what she had come for. The smoke seemed much closer now, and she could see in the distance that it rose from a clearing she knew had not been there before. She could see a large hole in the ground, which must have had the diameter of her and Mother’s hut five times over. Surrounding it, she saw even more corpses hanging by the neck, and towering, sharp fences adorned with heads on spikes. A low rumble came the clearing and she could see armed figures moving about, though she could not make out any details about them.

   She knew, in her gut, that her mother had been right. The creature that lay by her feet was unrecognizable to her. The sight underneath the smoke was one more horrific than anything she had seen, and all at once she was filled with hatred and rage. She ran, as fast as her feet could carry her, back the way she came. The forest was nothing but a blur in her peripheral vision. As she neared a smaller clearing with a pond, she could hear the sounds of laughter and shouting male voices. She scowled and neared closer to look over the area.

   Down below, two men bathed in the spring while one more sat on a rock, in full plate. _More soldiers_ , she thought, _too far into the Wilds for their own good, and too close for comfort to the hut._

   “You fuckin’ twat!” one of the men in the water shouted, “Hurry up an’ get in ‘ere!”

   The man on the rock looked haggard and worried. “These parts…supposed to be where the Witch of the Wilds lives…”

   “Oh, _fuck you_!” the other man in the lake cried.

   “Well, I don’t want to fuckin’ anger the cunt, do I?” he yelled back from the rock, “What if this is her pond?”

   “Not to worry, mate! I just pissed in it! Claimed it as my own, I did. Ain’t her pond no more,” one boasted and laughed heartily. The other violently splashed him and backed away from him frantically.

   “By Andraste’s tits you did! Disgusting wanker…”

   As she emerged from where she hid in the shadows beneath the trees, she growled. The man on the rock saw her first, and turned white as a sheet.

   “Oi, what’s the matter? Looks like he’s seen a ghost!” one from the spring said, who had not seen her yet. The man on the rock quickly grabbed his sword and sprinted away from the clearing and away from her, tripping over grass and twigs as he did.

   The other two caught on eventually, pointing and staring wordlessly at her wolf form. They rushed from the spring, nude and screaming, grabbing their armor and using it only to cover their modesty as they ran after their friend.

   When the vile men were finally out of sight, she carefully made her way down to the spring. Her reflection, in a way, was almost foreign to her, as blood obscured most of her muzzle and gave her a certain wildness and ferocity that was…not unwelcome, she supposed. She dipped her beak into the lake to quickly wash it off. After she had, she took in her reflection once more before it became that of a young woman with the moon decorating the sky behind her.

   The walk back to the hut was slow and solemn. What she had seen tonight held…consequences that she did not like to think on. She would not leave this forest, ever. She had promised herself that when she was very young.

    Of course, she had not always wished for that. Once, when she was small and foolish, she had found herself in a little town on the outset of the Wilds. There had been a festival that day, and she had seen floats and carriages of all shapes and colors parading down the street. Then, she had not understood any of it. But she watched intently with wide eyes that had never seen anything so wonderful—or so she believed. Back then, she never quite appreciated what she had.

   The most ornate carriage of them all held a noble woman dressed in white and gold finery that waved prettily to the common people as she passed them by. Morrigan, silly as she was, had walked up to the carriage and deigned to reach up and touch her, as if to confirm that she were real. Looking back on it now, she was lucky she had not had her hand chopped off. But the woman was kind, and smiled warmly at the small, pretty girl Morrigan had been. She reached back into the carriage and produced a small hand mirror, the very same color as her dress, with beautiful sparkling vines and flowers carved into the woodwork. She handed it to Morrigan, and it had been the only thing she had eyes for all the way back to the hut.

   Her joy had been short lived. The day Mother returned, she was furious. In truth, Morrigan had never seen her quite as angry as she had been that day. As Morrigan screamed and cried, her mother had smashed the mirror upon the floor. She had told her then that beauty and wealth were fleeting, and had no meaning. Survival had meaning, though. Power had meaning. She had left her in her room and Morrigan did not come out for three days. Then, naïve as she was, she had not understood what her mother had told her; not comprehended its value. Now she did, though. As much as she despised the old crone, she had raised her with everything she knew and valued.

   Now, Morrigan did not know what she would do. The Wilds were all she knew, and all she treasured in this world. If the darkspawn threat grew, she knew she and her mother alone could not contain it. They would have to leave, or die.

   She had not shed a tear since the day her pretty mirror had been smashed. But, that night, when she arrived at the hut, Morrigan sat upon her bed and she wept.


	6. Solena II

# Solena

   "This…is Lily,” Jowan explained. The woman who stood next to him was a Chantry Sister, that much was clear. She was a pretty enough redhead with a shapely figure, but that didn’t make this situation any less ridiculous. Solena’s eyes widened, and just as quickly narrowed.

   “An initiate? You’re shagging a bloody initiate?” they had to keep their voices down as best they could. They stood in an alcove in the back of Kinloch Hold’s chantry. After lunch, Jowan had confronted her and practically dragged her here, claiming he had something to discuss with her that couldn’t wait. He looked tired—even more than she did, if that were possible. She had been plagued with nightmares of being mauled by bears, attacked by wolves, and rats eating her alive all night and into the morning.

   “I told you I met a girl!” he retorted somewhat meekly, “Months ago!”

   “Not a fucking initiate! Do you have a death wish?”

   “All right, all right, keep your voice down!” he pleaded. Lily stood there looking incredibly awkward. Solena almost felt sorry for the poor girl. She sighed.

   “What’s this about, Jowan?”

   He seemed very unsure of himself. He looked to Lily, who nodded at him with a small smile. He turned back to Solena, who waited impatiently with her hands on her hips.

   “Well…remember when I said I didn’t think they wanted to give me my Harrowing? I…I know why. They’re going to make me tranquil.”

   Solena opened her mouth to speak, but only air came out. She diverted her eyes from Jowan momentarily, focusing intently on the golden bust of Andraste to her left.

   “Jowan, that’s…that’s ridiculous,” she said, meeting his eyes again.

   “Is it? They’ll take everything that I am from me—my dreams, hopes, fears…my love for Lily. They’ll extinguish my humanity! I’ll just be a husk, breathing and existing, but not truly living.”

   “And how did you find out about this?” Solena asked skeptically.

   “I saw the document on Greagoir’s table,” Lily spoke up, “It authorized the Rite on Jowan, and Irving had signed it.”

   Solena steadied herself, suddenly feeling a little woozy. “Well, um, what…what are you going to do?”

   “I need to escape!” he said, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. “I need to destroy my phylactery. Without it, they can’t track me down. Listen, we need your help. Lily and I can’t do this on our own.”

   “If you give us your word that you will help, we will tell you what we intend,” said Lily.

   Solena’s brain ran in circles and couldn’t seem to escape them. She had only known one tranquil in her entire life, and that was Owain who was the clerk for the Circle stockroom. Of all the things she had ever seen, including, perhaps, the Fade, he was by far the most terrifying. Oh, he was…nice enough, she supposed, if you could even call him that. But really, she knew that he wasn’t. He wasn’t…anything. You looked into his eyes and you saw no life behind them—Jowan was right on that account.

   If Lily said she had seen the document, she supposed she had no reason not to believe her. Jowan had been paranoid about his Harrowing for a while now, and in the back of her mind she had always known he had good reason to be, even as she had brushed off his concerns at every turn. He was twenty-four. Most all Harrowings she knew took place between the ages of sixteen and eighteen—even hers was a little late, and she had worried that if it had gone on any longer she would have been in the same boat as her friend.

   _Friend._ True, Jowan had been a friend when he didn’t have to be. Her only friend, really. Other than, well, Cullen. But it was Cullen’s affections that had soured all the other apprentices towards her—all _except_ for Jowan. To picture him in Owain’s place chilled her to the bone. More out of fear for herself than him, however selfish that might have been. She didn’t want to have to depend on a Templar for friendship or comfort. She didn’t want to have to depend on a Templar for anything.

   But escaping the Tower…if they were caught, she could be killed. Or worse, and more likely, made tranquil herself. In truth, she didn’t know what happened to mages who tried to escape. She knew of one, Anders, who had tried to escape with multiple attempts. She had not seen him in over a month. It sickened her to think of it.

   Why did he keep trying? Why does _anyone_ try and escape the Tower? For one thing, and one thing alone. One thing that meant the whole world and so much more. When she thought about it, a strange sense of excitement filled her entire body. But she had never let it get past that point. It had always been too dangerous a notion.

   “A-alright, yes, you have my word,” she said, before she could stop herself. _You idiot_ , she chastised herself. She had only just received her mage robes, and yet, here she was.

   “Thank you. We will never forget this.” Lily grabbed a hold of Jowan’s hand with both of hers and held tightly.

   “Is there a plan?” Solena questioned. Lily nodded.

   “I can get us into the repository. But there is a problem. There are two locks on the phylactery chamber door. The first enchanter and knight commander each hold one key. But…it is just a door. There is power enough in this place to destroy all of Ferelden. What’s a door to mages?”

   “I once saw a rod of fire melt through a lock,” Jowan offered.

   “Yes…yes, he’s right, that should work,” Solena confirmed. “I can get one through Owain. I’ll go do that, and you both need to be waiting for me outside the repository at midnight with your bags in tow, do you understand?”

   Jowan and Lily agreed. Before she took her leave, Jowan gripped her by the shoulder and smiled warmly. Her reaction was stone-faced, and she knew that must have upset him. She left the chantry without another word.

   One did not _escape_ the Tower. Who did she think she was, to be smart enough to pull it off? Even if she did, she wouldn’t be leaving with them, she realized. She couldn’t. She knew her own mind and she knew she wouldn’t be strong enough to do it. No, she would stay here and come up with the best damn story Greagoir had ever heard. She laughed, in spite of herself. She could be one of the only people in history to successfully break out of Kinloch Hold—to break into the phylactery chamber—and she wouldn’t even be free at the end of the day.

   _Freedom._ Was that even something she wanted? It seemed so strange to her now, so abstract. She could barely remember what the outside felt like. She was in her infancy when she arrived at the Tower, and she knew no home and no family. When she thought of her mother all she saw were fragments: a laugh, blonde hair, the smell of lavender, maybe. But she had long suspected her mother must be dead. If she were alive, would she not have written? Unless her mother had longed to be rid of her, which she also feared. Regardless, should she ever leave, she had nowhere to go. It was impractical for her to long for anything but what she had in the Circle Tower: security, shelter, and a wealth of knowledge.

   So there was no logical explanation for the way her heart leapt when she thought of taking a step outside of her prison. No reason that she found her nervousness soon transforming into giddiness. She was a being of rational thought, and this violated everything she knew, except…except that perhaps she _had_ spent her entire life reading book after book, romanticizing the world that she read about and all its mysteries.  Perhaps she had silently assured herself time and time again that _anywhere_ had to be better than here.

   There was a part of her—a small and silly part of her, that had always hoped she had some secret noble birthright. As a child, her argument had seemed flawless. Who was to say she hadn’t? She did not remember her mother nor the home she was born into. Maybe the light at the end of the tunnel was the discovery that she was a princess—that her imprisonment had all been some misunderstanding, and that she was meant to marry some noble prince who loved her and have his children and live in a grand castle by the sea.

   That was before, of course, she understood what hatred meant. Before she had stolen that sweet from the larder and looked into the eyes of the Templar that beat her and saw, for the first time in her life, _disgust._ She had been eight years old.

   She learned very soon after that no secret birthright would get her out of this hell. There was nothing in the world, as wonderful and fantastic as it may be, that would prevent the Templars from keeping her here until she was old and grey.

   Maker, she had a headache. She rubbed at her temple and forehead in circular motions as she made her way to the stockroom. It was her mistake that she was looking down at the ornate carpet that ran the length of the hall, and not where she was headed, because she ran face-first into a broad chest and a white tunic.

   “Oh, I’m so sorry! Pardon me,” she spoke, sounding more flustered than she had ever sounded in her life.

   “The fault is mine, my dear,” a warm voice said.

   She had certainly never seen him before. He was no Templar. In fact, he _smiled_ at her.

   Her eyes were drawn to the dagger at his side, and the insignia on the hilt. She stilled.

   “It was convenient we ran into each other though; I’m afraid I’m in need of directions to the library. It has been a while since my last visit to the Tower.” He chuckled to himself.

   “Straight ahead and all the way down until the hall ends, then take a left.”

   “Ah. You have my thanks, Miss…?”

   “Amell.”

   He paused, and looked for a moment as if he were going to say something else. He did not. Instead, he seemed to be taking her in as though he had not truly seen her the first time. He smiled at her again, nodded, and was on his way.

   The stockroom was empty when she arrived, save for Owain and the two Templars which guarded the door. This was good, she thought. She would rather as few people see her as possible. She approached the main desk where Owain sat with a thousand-yard stare. He was middle-aged and had a dramatic widow’s peak. His brown hair, she noted, had been groomed unusually short—another thing that was likely not under his control. She wasn’t even sure if he had any remaining autonomy with which to feed or bathe himself. The general unease of his presence had always been overshadowed by the pity she felt for the man he had once been. Solena hadn’t known him then, of course, but she knew that no one deserved…this.

   “Welcome to the Circle stockroom of magical items. My name is Owain. How may I assist you?” he asked. She knew his name. He had told her his name at least a hundred times before. But that didn’t matter.

   “Hi, Owain.” She gave him a smile. “I need to get my hands on a rod of fire. Can you do that for me?”

   “Rods of fire serve many purposes,” was his monotonous response. “Why do you wish to acquire this particular item?”

   “Oh, I’m doing some research into the effects of fire on the tissue of magical animals such as drakes and wyverns—all very boring stuff, I’m afraid.” She laughed to herself, and as anticipated, Owain did not.

   “Here is the form: ‘Request for Rod of Fire’. Have it signed and dated by a senior enchanter.” He handed her a slip of paper. Her face fell.

   _Shit._ She had expected this to go much smoother, and it was evident that she wasn’t going to charm Owain out of bureaucracy. She thanked him and went on her way. She needed to think of something sooner rather than later.

   As she turned down the hall, she became filled with dread at the sight of Cullen walking towards her. She had not spoken to him since yesterday, and she had used some…harsh words, to say the least. She had just felt _anger_ following her Harrowing like she had never felt before. Not at him, per say, though his coldness to her that night hadn’t helped. And a small part of her knew that guilt-tripping Cullen would always have its uses. Especially in a situation much like…this one…

She stopped in her tracks, and all at once everything came together. She had…an idea. It was a bad one. Oh, she knew it was a bad one. But it was the best she could do, and the clock was running short. She walked up to him with sudden determination and a smile on her face.

“Cullen,” she greeted.

“Solena, I—I’ve been meaning to—”

“Yes, I know. Perhaps we could…speak somewhere more private?” she proposed. A blush rose to his cheeks, one he probably hoped she hadn’t noticed.

“I…yes. Yes, of course.”

Her new chambers had been one good thing to come from the Harrowing, at least. They were spacious and comfortable. She had her own large feather bed, vanity, wardrobe and small bookcase. She wanted for nothing. Except a door, of course, but no mages had that. The room was still a small consolation prize, in the grand scheme of things.

“I understand why you were angry with me,” Cullen started once they knew they were alone. “I was terribly detached that night, and, frankly, I was frightened; frightened for you and what…what I might have had to do had you not—”

She gave him a sympathetic smile and reached out to touch his cheek. “I understand, Cullen. And I thank you for your concern, truly. My anger at you was misguided.”

“I—oh,” blurted Cullen, clearly expecting her to have said something else. “Well…good, then. I…was there something else you wanted…wanted to discuss?”

“Well, yes. You see, I need a favor,” she started, dipping her toes in and seeing where this went.

“Anything. Name it, and it’s yours, after how I’ve acted.” _Well, that was fast._

“You’re a dear,” she smiled at him again, and produced the form. “Lately I’ve been doing some research that I’m deeply invested in. It has to do with magical creatures and their susceptibility to heat. I feel as though I’m on the edge of a breakthrough, which is why I’ve tried to keep this a secret from my mentor. I wanted it to be a surprise, you know? And I…well, I need a rod of fire from the stockroom. But to obtain one…”

“…you need a signature from a senior enchanter. I see the problem. Don’t worry about it. I’ll throw some weight around and have it for you in a few hours.”

“Cullen, I don’t know what I’d do without you,” she said incredulously before leaning up to plant her lips on his cheek. She let herself linger just a split second too long before pulling away.

He was aghast, though he tried to hide it. He exited the room promptly, running into the side of her bedframe as he turned back to her to flash a smile. She giggled and waved, and played the silly love-struck girl for him until he was out of sight. Then she got to work.

~~~

Cullen had made good on his word, as she knew he would, and she had sealed her gratitude with yet another kiss on the cheek before “retiring for the evening”. Instead, she had hastily made her way to the stockroom and retrieved the rod of fire, which still took longer than she had expected. Owain had a handful of papers for her to sign and questions for her to answer, and for a moment she had feared she would be in that damned room past midnight.

That had not been the case, however, and when the clock struck twelve she met Lily and Jowan down in the Tower’s catacombs outside of the repository. The phylactery chamber was only accessed through that room.

Both Jowan and Lily had their belongings in sacks with them, as Solena had instructed, and they held onto each other’s hands for dear life. They had a nervous energy about them that only heightened her own, which she desperately tried to push to the back of her mind.

The repository was Solena’s dream. Here was where the Circle stored its most precious magical artifacts and treasures. The room was filled with enchanted statues, magically sealed tomes and ancient elven curiosities. A large mirror stretching from the ceiling to the floor that shone with moonglow and hummed a sweet song held a place of importance at the center of the room. It called to her like nothing she’d ever known before. But she had to stop herself from getting entirely derailed from their mission.

The more she thought about the room and the mirror, the more it made her sad and increasingly frustrated. Here were some of the greatest wonders in the world, all in one small room, hidden at the bottom of a glorified prison, gathering dust. No one in the Tower used them, she knew. No one admired them or hoped to glean useful knowledge from them. They were somebody’s sick _collection_ —more than likely the Templars’. All things for them to possess and control. In a way, nothing in this room was any different from her.

As it happened, the entrance to the phylactery chamber was hidden behind a bookcase. Once they had moved it out of the way, the rod of fire easily melted the door’s locks.

   The chamber was chilled as a measure to preserve the blood-filled vials that helped Templars track each and every mage in Ferelden that had ever been kept in Kinloch Hold. _How nice it must be to have never known the Circle,_ she thought, _to have been an apostate from the day you were born._ She wouldn’t know, of course, but she imagined that life on the run, apart from its dangers, must at least make one feel alive. Inside the Tower, she had always felt just a little bit like a husk of herself—of the woman she could have been.

   She shivered and grabbed her own arms for warmth.

   “All right, it should be labeled. Help me look and we’ll be out of here soon enough,” Jowan said, hastily dropping his bags on the stone floor and dashing to the closest set of shelves. They split up among different parts of the room, eyeing each phylactery closely.

   It was only a matter of time until Solena laid eyes upon her own. She found it such a strange, silly, simple thing, to hold all the power in the world over her. It was as if it were magnetic—drawing her in closer and closer until her hand almost touched it. She quickly recoiled and pulled her hand back, and just in time too. Any further and she would not have been able to stop herself. Not even in the Fade had she felt such deep temptation. Her head rang in pain. _No, Maker,_ why was she so _weak?_ How could she be the only thing that stood between herself and happiness?

   The throbbing of her skull stopped at once when she heard the crashing of glass on the floor behind her. She looked at her friend’s face and knew in an instant that he was free.


	7. Cullen II

# Cullen

He had been in the middle of a midnight sparring session when it happened. When the sound of shouting and hurried armored footsteps reached his ears, he and his partner stilled momentarily before rushing for their armor. A thousand and one scenarios ran through his head, all of them outlandish and far-fetched…unless they weren’t. All the men were headed towards the repository. And every man, woman and child in the Tower knew what lied beyond the repository.

Cullen was already covered in a thin sheen of sweat from the sparring match, and the anxiety that now overwhelmed made him feel almost feverish. Nothing like this had ever happened in his time at Kinloch Hold. Anything major that went on in the Tower was taken care of under wraps by senior Templars, and he only heard the tail end of those stories. They all ended mostly the same.

 As he threw his head out the door of the training room to look around, he saw Templars abandoning their posts left and right. He would _not_ miss this.

“I’ll catch up with you—go!” his sparring mate Gared shouted from behind him, still struggling with his armor. Cullen did not have to be told twice.

He hoped that Knight Commander Greagoir would be there to see how quickly he reacted to the call of duty. He hoped that perhaps once and for all his commitment and resolve would no longer be questioned. He knew there were whispers about him, and his favoritism of Solena. Greagoir had told him as much, and threatened to have him reassigned to the Circle in Kirkwall as punishment. Cullen had managed his way out of that one by the skin of his teeth, and had been fighting to regain the ground he lost each day since. It gnawed at his bones that he saw his peers advancing when he was stagnant, and that each one sneered at him and knew _exactly_ why.

But it could not keep him from her, even though he thought that it might. Perhaps that scared him most of all—that he could not stop himself. That even his duty and his sense of self caved at the sight of her. What was he but a dog where she was involved? He thought back to earlier that day, how easily he had done her bidding, no questions asked, for a smile and a peck on the cheek. He disgusted himself, but he had done it regardless, and for the life of him he did not know why. Cullen labored over that question the rest of the day.

And so when he turned the corner out of the hall to see where a congregation of Templars was forming, it was as if his whole world came to a screeching halt. His face fell and his heart began pumping faster than he could ever remember it doing. Suddenly, he knew the answer, and all he could think was _stupid, stupid, stupid._

In his mind, he was brought back to the night they were together in the library. They had been alone, he at his post and she nearing the end of her leisure time, and he had watched as she grabbed a large book and headed into a more secluded area. A strange bout of confidence overtook him, and he had followed her with the intention of letting his feelings be known, once and for all. He truly had not considered that she might not reciprocate. He was sure he had caught the signals. And…well, if he was being honest with himself, he had settled on a fantasy involving her and the library tables for nearly a month at that point. This was back before he had gained any semblance of shame or humility, apparently. Though, he would be lying if he said he did not still conjure up the thought late at night from time to time—and sometimes during the day.

Needless to say, it did not go as planned. He lost his nerve, as he usually did around her. And once he saw her intently flipping pages as her warm cheek was illuminated by candlelight, all bets were off. She had looked up, and all of a sudden, the strangest of looks had settled upon her face. At first glance, Cullen had thought that maybe she…well, that she had been scared of him. But they were friends. He should frighten her no more than a kitchen mouse. He had not known what else to make of that look, not until today.

She had then insisted that he should leave; that it was late, and she was tired, and she was not in the mood for conversation. When he would not, she closed her book with a slam and rose to leave. He grabbed her arm. He had not meant for it to be forceful, but he feared that perhaps it was.

He could not have been sure if it was a trick of the light or not, but he had thought he had seen tears forming in her eyes. She whispered a quiet, “Please,” and with a look of utter bewilderment on his face he had let her go. She hurried off, and they did not speak of it again. In all his ignorance, he had, over time, chosen to forget the encounter altogether, excusing it as a miscommunication between the two of them. Perhaps she had had a bad day, and needed to be left alone, and he hadn’t respected that. But now, he could not believe it had taken him so long to see the truth of it.

She was a mage. The look in her eyes had been hatred. She _hated_ him—of course she did, why had he ever thought any different? She always had. She had _never_ been his friend. And she had bewitched his mind today so that she could get what she wanted from him, and leave him. _You idiot._

 _She_ now stood at the entrance to the repository with an unreadable look upon her face. Next to her was Jowan and an initiate whom he did not know, both looking equally as glum. Irving and Greagoir headed the gathering of Templars. Greagoir was shouting, and was red in the face. Cullen did not hear much of what he said, in truth, but understood the gist

“Not but a day after her Harrowing, and _conspiring_ with a blood mage, and tainting the mind of an initiate! Is _this_ your _best_ and _brightest_ , Irving? Is _this_ your star pupil? Is that the story you still stand by?”

“I am…as disappointed as you, Knight Commander,” the old man spoke.

“ _Disappointed?_ ” Greagoir’s outrage only increased, if that were possible. “No, First Enchanter, I am _not_ disappointed. I am not even _surprised_. I call for the immediate _execution_ of this woman and her accomplice!”

He looked, and Solena’s face did not change—it did not even flinch.

Cullen felt a hand on his shoulder and saw Duncan emerge from the crowd that had gathered behind him.

“What is going on? What is the meaning of this?” he asked him privately. Cullen sneered.

“What does it look like?”

Duncan paid him little mind, and instead tried fruitlessly to push forward through the crowd as Irving and Greagoir argued.

“Now Knight Commander, that is hardly—” he started.

“What is it, hardly? This woman is a disgrace! Do you condone her actions?”

“Surely not, but—”

“Then there is no argument to be had!”

“An execution for a first attempt is hardly warranted or customary, Knight Commander. And what is to be the punishment for your initiate? Is she blameless in your eyes?”

“This is hardly a customary situation! As for the girl, she can be taken to Aeonar. She can live out her days in pious reflection of her sins.”

You would not have seen it if you were not paying close attention, but Jowan’s face twitched. Cullen furrowed his brow in confusion as the initiate backed away in horror.

“The…the mages prison. No…please, no!” Templars marched towards her to seize her as she let out bloodcurdling screams.

Before they could reach her, Jowan raised his hand and pulled out a dagger, which he placed upon his palm. Every Templar in the room, as well as Solena, recoiled at once. Some then proceeded to move to tackle him. They did not get very far. As quickly as they moved, Jowan’s knife cut a gash deep into his hand, and a force swept through the room strong enough to knock even the largest soldier to the floor.

Cullen had never known darkness to cloud his vision so fast.

~~~

He was quicker to wake than most, but not all. He saw a handful of his peers rising to their feet as he opened his eyes, and he heard _her_ voice from the center of the room.

“Are you deaf? I told you, I didn’t know he was a blood mage. He didn’t _tell_ me anything—he likely didn’t even tell her!”

Cullen steadied himself as the shouting match between her and Greagoir continued. He had once thought this girl _demure_.

“And where is she now? Do you expect me to believe that buffoon kept the greatest secret of his life from his lover as well as his confidant? Even when Irving and I had our own suspicions?”

“ _I. Didn’t. Know.”_

“You may pretend to be stupid when you whore yourself out to my men but you will _not_ play the idiot with me, girl.”

Cullen may have been keeled over in an attempt to catch his breath, but the sound of her spitting in the Knight Commander’s face was well amplified by the acoustics of the large room.

He also heard the subsequent rustle of plate metal and the distinct strike of it against flesh. His head shot up at that.

“ _Stupid bitch!”_ Greagoir cried as he only barely contained his rage. Irving was slowly rising to his feet, but clearly not in time to defend his charge. And Cullen…Cullen could only watch from a distance.

From where she now knelt on the ground from the force of Greagoir’s blow, Cullen heard a quiet, humorless laugh which he could barely believe belonged to her. It lasted until the Commander pulled her up forcefully by the hair.

But, in the end, it was the sound of steel being pulled quickly from a sheath that alerted every soul awake to hear it.

“Do you mock me? Do you think me _weak_ , girl? Do you think I won’t kill you where you stand?” Greagoir’s right hand firmly grasped his sword, which still remained at his hip but had been pulled out halfway. His other still gripped her hair like a vice, facing her towards him.

“Knight Commander!” Irving yelled, but it did not calm Greagoir, or stop Solena from opening her mouth.

“I think you a _coward,_ ” she said through gritted teeth.

Greagoir let out a cry one would usually reserve for the battlefield as he flung Solena to the ground and readied his sword. Cullen could not believe his eyes or ears, and it seemed his feet could not move him either.

“ _STOP THIS MADNESS IN THE NAME OF YOUR KING!”_

The booming voice was enough to stay Greagoir’s hand, and he along with everyone else turned to seek its source. They did not have to look far. Duncan was storming towards the center from Cullen’s left with his left hand also poised on his sword.

“I invoke the Rite of Conscription on this woman and declare all of her crimes forgiven. I take her under my wing with the intention of initiating her into the Grey Warden order within the month, under the orders of His Majesty King Cailan the First, by the Maker’s blessing, of Ferelden and its people. Knight Commander, I suggest you stand down, or I may be forced to take up arms against you under the charges of high treason.”

Every soul in the room was incredulous, but Solena was, as she had always been, unreadable. She breathed deeply and unevenly as she stared up at the man who had saved her.

Greagoir, though begrudgingly, did as he was ordered. He looked as though he’d like nothing better than to run his sword through the Commander of the Grey instead.

“My Lady Amell, do you accept?” Duncan asked. Solena could only nod. He offered her his hand, which she used to stand up. Her once immaculate robe which had been the colors of the sunrise, was now dusty, torn, and dirty. A hint of blood that he knew was Jowan’s stained her left side. A red mark from the slap was sustained on her cheek, as well as a bloody scab from Greagoir’s armored hand. For a moment he later decided to forget, his heart panged at the sight of her and the thought of how Greagoir must have treated her _before_ he had woken up.

Greagoir shook his head. “Get her out of my sight.”

Duncan placed his hand on Solena’s back and guided her out of the room. As she left, Cullen found himself unable to take notice of anything else going on in the space around him. He was transfixed by the sight of her. Not like he usually was—this time, she was an enigma; a mystery that he couldn’t believe he had once prided himself in having solved. All this time…had he not known one single, solitary thing about her?

“Rutherford! Wake up, you bloody fool! In my office, now!”

He had to give her credit. She did not look back.


	8. Alistair I

# Alistair

Duncan was meant to have returned from his recruiting tour a week ago. Alistair resolved _not_ to panic, however. He had an endless list of duties to oversee while the Commander was away. Most of which involved being a glorified messenger-boy between the openly hostile factions that the King had miraculously brought together under one banner. Except most of the time he didn’t really feel so glorified. 

Certainly, he had pleasant jobs too. Acclimating some of the new recruits to the camp and military life was surprisingly enjoyable. Being in charge of something was a foreign experience that he hadn’t formed a sound opinion on yet. He wasn’t even entirely sure how or why this newfound authority had been thrust upon him. The Grey Wardens were probably the least organized force fighting under the King, but there was reason for it. There weren’t very many of them, for starters. By Alistair’s rough approximations they were less than a thousand strong, and the bulk of the force were Wardens from Orlais, not Ferelden. But even in their messy state, he could not fathom how _he_ had somehow become the makeshift Second-in-Command. He had been around for a while, sure. Longer than most. But he had never once expressed to Duncan any desire for a position of leadership, verbally, nonverbally, or fucking subliminally. 

Alistair supposed he was glad for it. It gave him something to do, at least, so he wasn’t lying about and twiddling his thumbs in Duncan’s absence. Right now, for example, he…well. Now was the not-so-great part. 

“Private Jennings,” he greeted the woman standing on the wall. She saluted.

“Yessir?” He handed her a slip of parchment.

“Your post has changed. See Warden Riordan with questions.”

“Yessir,” 

Most of the day’s communications were routine, and the worst thing about them was that they were more boring and redundant than the bloody Chant of Light. But others, communications outside the Wardens, Alistair positively dreaded—like the one he was scheduled to have next.

It was late into the morning. The sun cast a yellow glow on the white, stony ruins of Ostagar, and the birds of the Wilds were still chirping loud enough to hear. He walked on the bridge that joined the main road to the larger fortress, where the main camp was settled. He meandered about the mages’ tents there, asking for the Enchanter, to which he was granted a series of shrugs and “piss offs”. Alistair finally found him skulking in a secluded area of the ruins, his back facing him. Alistair sighed before speaking.

“Enchanter Sellius, I—”

“Oh, what is it now, Alistair? Haven’t the Grey Wardens bothered the Circle enough? I think we’ve been quite agreeable, considering.” 

“Yes, agreeable _is_ the word I’d use to describe our exchanges. Thank you for putting it so eloquently.” 

Sellius scoffed, and his hooked nose wrinkled as if the unpleasant man had smelled something foul.

“What do you want? I gave you my records on the Amell girl. My impression was that your Commander had returned with her hours ago.”

Hours ago? But Alistair hadn’t seen— _never mind_. He’d seek Duncan out later. He was probably…probably very busy.

“I bring a message from the Revered Mother, Ser Mage. She desires your presence. Now before you ask, for what reason I’m _sure_ I don’t know.”

“And the Revered Mother sends _you_? Why? To insult me?”

“Well yes, I’m sure if I spoke to the Maker all day, speaking with you any longer than necessary would be a terrible disappointment.”

“I will not be harassed in this manner!”

“Yes, I was harassing you by delivering a message.”

“Your glibness does you no credit,” Sortanne said flatly.

“Oh, and here I thought we were getting along so well! I was even going to name one of my children after you—the grumpy one, of course.”

Sellius glared and pushed past him.

“Get out of my way, _fool_.”

Once the man had left, Alistair paced back and forth and gently massaged his temples. If Duncan was truly back, maybe he wouldn’t have to do as much of whatever _this_ was anymore, or speak to that man ever again. He heard footsteps coming from where Sellius had exited.

“Don’t you have a priest to go talk—”

It was not Sellius.

“Oh,” he said, stupidly. “Terribly sorry, I thought you were…someone else.” A hint of a smile crossed her features.

“I can see that.” Her voice was bloody _honey_.

He didn’t think he had a thing for blondes. Or a thing for anything, really. Most of the women he knew weren’t…well, come to think of it, he did know attractive women. In hindsight it was probably very pathetic that he hadn’t ever even considered that before. 

“I was told to seek you out—Solena Amell. Duncan said you’d be expecting me.” She outstretched her hand. For a second where he was sure he didn’t have control of his limbs, he just stared at it. Her nails were finely manicured. 

He glanced up and saw her looking at him expectantly with eyes that were ice. He realized his mistake and shook the hand she offered. 

“Yes! That was the name! I’m Alistair. Pleasure. Sorry if you heard any of…well, _that_. Nasty business, that man,” he blurted and let go of her hand.

“Don’t like dealing with mages, do you?” she raised a perfect eyebrow.

“Not that one,” he clarified. “I worry that, with him, I have a high chance of being turned into a toad at any given moment.”

“Is that a great fear of yours?”

“Well, years of Templar training will do that to you.” She stiffened. Alistair rushed to clarify once more. “ _Just_ training. I never made it into the Order. Left for the Wardens right before then, and never looked back. It was Duncan that saved me from that Maker-forsaken place, you know. Just like he did for you.”

He could see her relax a little. “You were a piss-poor Templar, I take it?” he knew there was hostility there, in her voice. Despite the joke. 

“I would have been, seeing as I refused to hunt mages. Probably would have come up, somewhere down the line.” He shrugged. He saw her look at him, only for a second, as though he were the greatest mystery in the world. 

“You’re a very strange man.”

“Yes, well, you’re not the first woman to have told me that. Now, I’ll be your mentor as you go through the initiation process. There should be two others in the group with you, around here somewhere most like. Follow me.”

Before he moved to pass her, he took in every detail he could, due to an apparent lack of sense or restraint. They had fitted her in a set of Warden armor already, which suited her far better than it did him. The rich blue and silver of the robe, made of quilt and light mail, complimented her. She was average in height—shorter than him, and she was slim, yet— _Andraste forgive me, I’m no drooling lecher_ —shapely in ways that now was not the appropriate time to think on. A head of dirty blonde hair was braided behind her, small tendrils framing her soft cheeks and pretty jaw. The woman had _lips_ that— _Maker bless it_. His position was not an excuse to admire attractive women.

As they walked, he pointed out places of interest.

“You’ve got your armorer and your blacksmith—looks like you’ve already been there. Up on that rise, Mother Hanna delivers sermons every day before noon, if that’s the sort of thing you’re interested in.”

She took in all the information he gave her, her eyes wide. It was strange to him, how attentive and interested she was in the camp and its goings-on, but he didn’t ask. In a way, it was refreshing. She was…refreshing.

“You’ve got the mages’ camp to your left, but I wouldn’t go there unless you have an itch for unpleasant conversations and grumpy old men. If you do need anything, ask for Wynne. She’s the only pleasant one they’ve got.”

“The mages have a division here?”

“Oh yes, part of the King’s Army. Kinloch Hold sends them on request.”

“I’d never heard of that.” He barely caught it, but there was a dismal tone in her voice. His most intelligent response was to leave her to her thoughts.

They arrived at the recruits’ tent. He drew back the flap, calling to the men inside.

“Daveth, Jory—you’re with me!”

The two men scrambled out minutes later, strapping on armor and fell in line. Alistair thought the three of them could not possibly be more different. Ser Jory was a large man in his thirties whose red hair was already balding. He had been composed, if not a bit reserved when Alistair met him, and spent most of his time praying upon the hill with Mother Hanna. Daveth was young, lean, tanned and nimble, and had spent _his_ time getting to know every woman in the damned camp. Alistair decided to keep his eyes on him when it came to Solena, whom he noted had immediately caught Daveth’s gaze.

They met Duncan at the bonfire in the center of camp, poring over a map, and Alistair was grateful for the sight of him—though Duncan had some choice words for him once they arrived for briefing.

“Alistair, for the last time, stop harassing the acting Enchanter. If I receive one more complaint from that man I would not be the least bit surprised if he ordered the next Exalted March.”

“What could I say? The man would be bitter if I had handed him a receipt for a thousand gold coins.” Duncan did not look amused at that. “My apologies,” Alistair receded. “It won’t happen again. It’s good to have you back, Commander.”

“Thank you. And see that it doesn’t. As for your initiates, their first mission, it seems, will kill two birds with one stone. For the ritual, we’ll need three vials of darkspawn blood, as you know. I’ve marked on your map just how deep into the Wilds the last darkspawn encounters took place. When you return, update me on where they’ve migrated. King Cailan will be interested in their patterns. I also need a favor, Alistair, if you will. It is…rather delicate in nature, so I ask you handle it as such.”

Alistair nodded. “Of course.”

“I’ve taken the liberty of marking the location of a Grey Warden outpost not far out of your way that was abandoned years ago. It has come to my attention that inside, there should be a cache likely buried beneath rubble. I hope they are not too far lost, but the cache should hold a collection of old documents. I need them returned to me with haste, should you be successful in finding them.”

“With luck, we will return by nightfall, Commander.” Alistair saluted. “All right, move out, come on!”

They were a good few paces on their way to the gates that led into the Wilds when Solena caught up to him.

“Alistair, I need to speak with you.”

They did not stop walking, but he turned his head.

“Yes, what is it?”

“Look, I—I think there’s been some mistake. Duncan knows I’ve never seen combat. I’m trained, yes, but I’ve never—”

And there it was. The catch.

Alistair’s eyebrows raised at her admission, but he attempted to reassure her. 

“Not to worry. Mages hang back from the battle by design. We’ll keep darkspawn off you.”

She seemed to relax at that.

“I won’t let you down, Ser. I promise.”

Fucking bloody fucking hell.

_ Never seen combat _ ? What did they do up there all day in that Tower, have their apprentices tossing spells at the walls? Never in his life had he heard of such a thing. 

Duncan owed him for this. He bloody owed him. Here he was, about to traipse about the Wilds into the darkspawn masses with an inexperienced child. Bloody babysitting. From Duncan’s right hand to this, Alistair couldn’t see where he had went so wrong. 

“We have permission to pass, on Duncan’s orders,” he declared to one of the men guarding the gate, who promptly pulled on the chain to open it. 

“Of course. I must warn you, though, to tread carefully. Men have come back reporting strange sightings of feral beasts at night. On your guard, Alistair.”


	9. Morrigan II

# Morrigan

Enough was enough. Following the day she had come across the men in the lake, Morrigan had flown into a rage. Each man that wandered through her pines on the King’s orders left in a panic with his tail between his legs. Admittedly, she had had a little fun at their expense. Some days she appeared a wolf; others, a grizzly bear, or a giant black spider. The spider was her favorite.

Mother had returned the day before, but had not taken notice of Morrigan’s foul mood. Though, that was not unusual. Her mother did not typically seek to validate Morrigan’s mood swings, or her feelings in general. It was not her way. They did not speak of the darkspawn, either. In fact, they did not speak much at all.

Soon, however, addressing the darkspawn threat would be necessary. Morrigan had already had to take care of many in the woods. The beasts pushed towards Ostagar, that much she knew. They had not yet, as it seemed, taken notice of their hut, as it posed no real threat. But Morrigan feared the day that they would. She knew she and her mother should have left already, most like. In truth, she did not even know if her mother _would_ leave. The old bat was even more attached to this forest than she, and had lived here long before Morrigan was born.

If her mother spoke true, and she had no reason to believe that she did not, that had been nineteen years ago. The seed that made her was from an unfortunate Chasind man who had wandered unwittingly into the heart of the Wilds on a hunt for his tribe. That was all she knew of him, for Mother only mentioned him the once, upon request, and never again. It was this that led her to the conclusion that Mother must have killed him, afterwards, rather than risk him returning and telling his men of the woman that lived alone in the woods.

She had no love for her mother, and she did not find that odd. They survived together out of necessity. Her mother was getting on in age at the time of Morrigan’s birth and could not hope to do everything she once could, and so Morrigan served a purpose. Morrigan was simply grateful that her mother had thought to raise her well enough—to teach her how to defend herself, how to know and respect the earth, and how to manipulate the arcane to her every whim. Morrigan had not read a great many books, but she didn’t need to. She learned more from the old witch and her Wilds in nineteen years than she could if she spent her entire lifetime in a library. That, she suspected, was why the great lords of Ferelden were so hopelessly stupid.

Out of precaution, Morrigan had established a perimeter around their hut that she would check each day as a raven, looking for signs of life, whatever they may be, and warding them off should they get too close. That was what she had just finished doing when she flew to the ground and changed back into her human form. Though only moments after stepping on the forest floor, a sudden rustle of leaves and the muffled sound of voices caused her to quickly recede back behind the tree line with care.

Four soldiers walked down the path. One, to Morrigan’s surprise, was a woman. And from the staff she wore on her back, Morrigan recognized her as a mage. Never in her life had Morrigan heard of such a thing. If the King conscripted mages into his army, was he truly as dull as Morrigan had been led to believe?

The blonde woman was not the focus of Morrigan’s attention for long, however. As she observed the three other men with her, her gaze fell upon the silver griffons embroidered upon their royal blue armor. She gasped.

 _No. Not now_ , _please not now._

The man at the head of the group had clearly heard her. His head darted to the trees in which she hid and he furrowed his brow.

“Hold,” he commanded, raising his hand. “I heard something. Not darkspawn. I would know if they were.”

The group froze as Morrigan cupped both her hands over her mouth and remained absolutely still. After what felt like an eternity, the woman spoke up.

“If it’s not darkspawn, I think we should keep moving, Alistair. We’re pressed for time as it is.”

“Alright,” the man seemed to reluctantly agree. “I just don’t want whatever it is getting behind us. Keep your eyes and ears peeled.”

“It’s probably just some bloody wolves,” another man spoke. He was shorter and dark-haired. “Can’t stand the beasts, but I’ll be on the lookout.”

They proceeded onward and Morrigan was left to let out the breath she had been holding. She leaned back against a tree and looked up to the cloudy sky as her chest heaved.

Had her mother known? Was that why she seemed so indifferent while the darkspawn threat still grew ever greater? Morrigan thought that most probable. In truth, Morrigan had not thought about the fateful conversation she had once had with her mother since that very day. She had pushed it to the very back of her mind and made it stay there. It was not something any little girl wants to hear. It was not something any grown woman would want to hear either.

She had known since then that her fate was intertwined with Wardens that would visit their forest, or so her mother would have her believe. Truly, Morrigan did not know if her mother knew the first thing about fate or destiny or if she had just been pushing her own personal agenda on the fearful little girl Morrigan had once been. She suspected the latter, but she feared both possibilities.

Her mother would force her to leave with the Grey Wardens. Or circumstance would. One way or another, today would be her last day in the Wilds. She was not ready.

But why were they _here_? The King’s camp was at Ostagar, where his army prepared for battle. A scouting party, perhaps, like the countless soldiers she had scared off before? No. Wardens would not risk their small numbers just to do a job for footmen. They were looking for something. Morrigan had a sneaking suspicion that she knew what it was.

She pulled herself together, and moved stealthily behind the tree line, trailing behind the Wardens who walked on the path.

It was inevitable that they would come across the forward camp. Morrigan had observed it not but a day prior. She would have felt sorry for the poor fools had they not been impeding on her lands, or had they only been more wary where they rest their heads. A more careful eye would have seen traces of darkspawn all over the clearing. But, yet again, the King’s army failed to surprise her, and they were slaughtered in their beds.

When the four of them halted at the site of carnage, Morrigan watched from the shadows.

The man they called Alistair rushed to the side of a badly injured soldier propped up against the side of a large rock and knelt beside him. The woman and the rest soon followed.

“What happened, man? Can you speak? Where is the rest of your charge?” the Warden demanded.

The soldier attempted to speak, but coughed up blood. The woman spoke in his stead.

“Alistair, isn’t it obvious? The man needs healing, move aside.”

The bold woman pushed through the other two and Alistair, though shocked, moved to accommodate her. She got to work quickly, moving her hands along his wounds as she used her magic to do what she could. The man would die anyway. Morrigan knew this, and the woman must have too. Her gesture of healing, regardless of the man’s state, perplexed her.

“Maker…bless you.” The soldier managed. “We were…ambushed. Dead of night. Darkspawn…came from the trees. Bloody massacre.”

One of the two men who stood at a distance began pacing, running a hand through his hair. The other stood absolutely still, but Morrigan could smell his fear from where she stood. It would not have surprised her if the fool had wet himself. _Grey Wardens, indeed._

The Wardens did not get much more from him after that, and it was not long before the soldier had passed out from blood loss. The woman’s hands ceased their movement, and she offered Alistair a knowing look. Alistair hung his head before standing up.

“They could be bloody anywhere,” the pacing man said, nervously. “Did you hear him? They came from the bloody trees. I didn’t know they were this close to the fucking camp—“

“It is a surprise they are this close already, yes,” Alistair interrupted, harshly. “But you should quit your worrying. We are safe. If darkspawn are near, I’ll know. Grey Wardens can sense it.”

“Oh, that’s bloody comforting. Did you hear that, Ser Knight?” He lightly slapped the man who had not yet moved or spoken on his arm. “We might die—but we’ll be warned about it first!”

“Shut up.” The woman spoke from where she still knelt on the ground, by the man who Morrigan suspected was now dead. “Just stop. We’re getting what we came here for, and we’re leaving. That’s it.”

“She’s right,” Alistair agreed. “Duncan, Loghain and the King will need to hear this news as soon as possible. They should prepare for battle by nightfall. Which means we need to move fast.”

The pacing man stilled and his eyes grew wide, like the other.

“ _Nightfall_? The battle—you think….tonight?”

“Tonight, most like.” Alistair confirmed, nonchalant in comparison to his charge. “If not, then certainly by early morn. They’ll want to catch us off-guard.”

The woman on the ground had no reaction. She had been staring at the dead man for some time now, with a blank look that Morrigan could not place.

“I didn’t…I didn’t expect…” the nervous man continued.

“None of us did,” retorted Alistair. “You do realize we’ll have to face darkspawn to get the blood we need, don’t you? That _is_ what you chose to become a Grey Warden to do, right? _That’s the job_.”

To everyone’s surprise, the silent man spoke up. “I signed up to face darkspawn in battle, _yes._ Not to die in an ambush on some silly fetch quest, in preparation for some ritual we’ve been told _nothing about_.”

“Then _go home_.” The woman turned, looking at the man with a restrained rage. “You’re no Warden yet. No one’s forcing you to be here. Leave, and do us all a favor.”

“I’m no coward!” he sputtered.

“Then prove it.”

“Enough—all of you!” Alistair yelled. “We’re moving out. If you’re staying, stay. If not, just go, and be done with it.”

None left. Though Morrigan agreed with the blonde woman that perhaps some of them should have. The two cowards were a liability, and would perish in the coming battle anyway, if not sooner.

Morrigan scouted ahead of them, as a bird. If they were truly only here to take darkspawn blood and be gone, then they were of no concern to her. But if they also sought what she suspected, then she needed to reach the old ruins before them. She would need to confront them, and she knew that they would be hostile. She needed to secure her exit plan, should things take a turn for the worse.

      When she had staked out the ruins enough to feel safe, she flew and landed on top of a perch and she waited.

~~~

      It was an hour before they arrived at the ruined tower, covered in blood from head to toe. They all looked shaken, which was not surprising. Likely none of them had seen battle in years, and certainly not with darkspawn.

      “This is the place. Duncan said we should find them here. Spread out, look for anything buried beneath rubble,” Alistair ordered.

       The two cowards had a sour look on their faces, as if they had smelled something foul. But they did as Alistair commanded regardless. They searched, fruitlessly, before the woman called out.

        “Alistair, take a look at this.”

         She had found the small chest. Once ornate, perhaps, but had long since been tarnished by dust and debris.

         “It’s empty,” she noted, dismally.

         “Empty? What—?”

          Morrigan’s footsteps down the tower stairs alerted them, and their weapons were drawn instantaneously.

           “Well, well. What have we here?” Morrigan’s smile was predatory. She was clearly not the disfigured monster they had been expecting. “Are you vultures, I wonder? Scavengers—poking amidst a corpse whose bones have been long since picked clean? Or merely intruders, come into these darkspawn-filled Wilds of mine in search of easy prey?”

            The Wardens were at a loss for words. They all looked at her in shock. Alistair eyed her with suspicion.

            “What say you, hmm? Scavenger or intruder?”

            “Neither, _witch_. This tower was an outpost, belonging to the Grey Wardens. As were the documents inside them. I suggest you return them.” Alistair spewed.

            Morrigan was offended. “I will not, for it was not I who removed them! Invoke a name that means nothing here any longer if you wish, I am not threatened.”

            “Alistair, let me,” the woman stepped closer to her.

            “Watch it. She looks Chasind—that means more could be nearby,” he warned.

            “Oh! You fear barbarians will _swoop_ down upon you?” Morrigan mocked.

            “Yes, swooping is bad…” Alistair muttered idiotically under his breath, perhaps hoping no one would hear him.

            “Sh-she’s a Witch of the Wilds she is! She’ll turn us into toads!” The dark-haired coward yelped. Morrigan had to refrain from laughter.

            “’ _Witch of the Wilds’,_ is it? Ah, such idle fancies, those legends. Have Wardens no minds of their own?” Morrigan smiled, then looked upon the woman. “You there. Women do not frighten like little boys. Tell me your name and I shall tell you mine.”

            “Call me Solena.”

            “And _you_ may call me Morrigan, if it pleases you. It seems you seek something in these ruins, yes? Something that is here no longer.”

            “Yes, documents. Do you know of them? Who took them?” she asked.

            “’Twas my mother, in fact.”

            “ _Your mother_?” Alistair scoffed.

            “Yes, my _mother_. Did you presume I sprouted from a log?” The man grimaced even more at her comment, if possible.

            “Could you take us to her? We are battle-weary and pressed for time. The darkspawn will arrive at Ostagar by sundown.” Solena requested.

            “A sensible request! It seems common courtesy is not lost on you people after all. Follow me—do try to keep up. Wouldn’t want the darkspawn nipping at our heels.”

            At last they sheathed their weapons, and Morrigan led them through her woods.

~~~

            “Morrigan! Where have you _been_ , girl? Supper’s gotten cold!” her mother croaked from the cauldron. The Wardens trailed cautiously behind her.

            “ _Mother_ , I bring you four Grey Wardens who—”

            “I know who they are, girl. Do you think me deaf, dumb and blind?”

            “I—”

            “Come closer, girl.” Her mother did not address her. Morrigan stepped aside, sensing where she was no longer needed.

            Solena looked at Morrigan, trying to read her—perhaps trying to sense whether or not this was a trap. She looked at her mother the same way. She stepped closer as she had asked. Alistair looked like he was going to say something, perhaps stop her, but he decided against it.

            “Hmm,” her mother made a sound from the back of her throat. Morrigan saw the discomfort in Solena’s featured at the closeness of the old witch. “Much as I expected.”

            “We’re supposed to believe you were expecting us?” the dark-haired fool scoffed.

            “You are _required_ to do nothing, young man. Least of all believe. Shut one’s eyes tight or open one’s eyes wide—either way, one’s a _fool._ ”

            Morrigan could not refrain from smirking. The fool moved to speak in retort, but the other coward stopped him before he began.

            “Oh _quiet_ , Daveth. If she’s really a witch, do you want to make her mad?”

            “Ah, there’s a smart lad.” Her mother smiled. “Sadly irrelevant to the larger scheme of things.”

            The two cowards did not speak at all after that. Alistair put a hand on Solena’s arm, pushing her gently away from the witch.

            “We came here only for the treaties. Your daughter led us to believe you had them. Then, we’ll be on our way and out of your hair.”

            Alistair’s attempt to put distance between them and the witch was fruitless—it only drew her closer.

            “That’s a good man. And handsome, too. Keep him close, dear. Don’t let him fly too far from your grasp. Oh, he’ll try to.” Her mother let out a hearty laugh, at a joke no one but her caught. “I know why you’re here, boy. Don’t you fret. You’ll have your parchment soon enough. Let me look at the girl.”

            Solena’s brow only furrowed more with every word her mother spoke. Morrigan was at as much of a loss as she, but she had heard less sane things come from her mother’s mouth, she supposed. The witch ran a bony finger down Solena’s cheek. Alistair breathed deep, his hands balled into fists.

            “So much about you is uncertain.” Her mother took a long pause. “I admire that. Keeps me on my toes, even in my old age. Now, what of you, hmm? Does your woman’s mind alter your perspective of things?”

            Solena was at a loss. “I…I’m sorry, I…what?”

            “Of everything, dear. Of me, of this place, of the darkspawn, the coming battle, of this _Witch of the Wilds_ nonsense, the state of the world? Are there thoughts in that pretty skull or just dust? Don’t disappoint me, dear, I know you’re no idiot, so don’t play one.”

            Solena flinched, as if slapped. She gave Morrigan’s mother a different look now, as if seeing her for the first time.

            “I’m not sure what I believe,” she said with firm resolve. The witch smiled.

            “A statement that holds more wisdom than most. My Morrigan thinks she knows everything that is and will be—for all the good that does her. You could teach her better. Then, of course, there is a flame of childlike wonder about her that has been snuffed out in you—I see that now. Oh, how she dances under the moon!” Her mother let out another cackle.

            “They did not come to hear your _wild tales_ , Mother.”

            “Oh, yes, of course. Forgive an old woman her ramblings. I have your precious treaties here.” She reached behind the cauldron and produced a stack of parchment that had clearly been worn at the edges through generations of non-use, but were otherwise intact. “And _before_ you get all accusatory, young man, your silly magical seal wore off long ago. I have protected them from the elements—nothing more.”

            “You— _Oh._ ” Alistair spoke. “You…protected them?” He took the parchment in hand, carefully. The man was not quick to trust. Perhaps that made him smart, even though he had given her every shred of evidence to the contrary. Morrigan could give him that credit.

            “And why not? Take them to your Wardens and tell them that this Blight’s threat is greater than they realize.”

            “What do you mean by that?” Solena questioned.

            “Either the threat is more, or they realize less. Does it matter? Either way, I fear the night will not go as they have planned. Warn them, and do keep yourselves safe.”

            “Yes. Time for you to go, then.” Morrigan spoke as she grabbed a bowl to pour her supper into.

            “Where are your manners, girl? These are our guests!” The witch raised an eyebrow at her. Morrigan licked the finger that she had put in the stew and slowly put down her bowl. She sighed.

            “Very well. I shall…lead you safely out of the woods. Follow me.”

            Her mother could only smile as they left, watching them intently until the trees blocked her line of sight.


	10. Solena III

# Solena

Jory's pacing was going to drive her mad, if Daveth's leering didn't first. Alistair, Maker bless him, stood away from everyone. He stood leaning against a pillar, half in shadow—the picture of calm. Of course, it wasn't him that had to face the ritual to come. In truth, it didn't worry her. But this waiting, this…this _nothing_ while the darkspawn horde marched ever closer to Ostagar was infuriating. Night had fallen, and she could feel something in the air, something so still and quiet, that a lump formed at the pit of her stomach that would not go away.

"It has been long enough," Jory declared. "Why have we not heard anything from Duncan? The secrecy of this ritual is entirely suspect." He seemed to be talking to Alistair, but the senior Warden didn't even glance in his direction. He seemed preoccupied with a small pendant in his hands. On it was what looked like a small flask, meant to hold something. But it was empty. He kept rubbing his thumb over the clear face of it. If the others noticed his strange tick, they showed no sign of it.

"Yes, well, try not to wet your trousers before we get started." Daveth jeered.

"I've just never met a foe I could not engage with my blade." Jory retorted.

"Maybe the reason they don't tell us is they don't think we'll do it, you know? If we knew," Daveth suggested.

"That's what worries me," Jory sneered.

"I'd do anything to stop the Blight." Daveth shrugged. "If there's a price, I'll pay it."

"You sound right sure of yourself, considering you've no inkling what it is." Jory shook his head, put his hands on his hips and stopped pacing. He breathed deep. "I've got a family. Back in Redcliffe. A wife, and a child on the way. I can't…"

Alistair glanced up. He didn't speak. He just looked sad. If he thought no one had noticed, he was wrong. Solena moved towards him, but was intercepted by Daveth. She rolled her eyes, and her body mimicked the movement.

"You've been rather quiet, love. How about you, hmm? You got anyone back home I should know about?"

She stared him down with indignation.

"Oh, for the Maker's sake, Daveth, leave her be." Jory insisted.

"Now, now, I'm just making polite conversation, Ser Knight. Come now, any port in the storm, pet? Some nice mage boy waiting for you back at the Tower? Or maybe it was a big, strong Templar that slipped between your sheets at night. Is that something you mage girls are into?"

She grimaced, slapped him across the cheek, and he recoiled. The sound echoed against the walls of the ruin. He would be nursing that sting for quite some time.

"Never presume to talk to me again." She brushed past him. She heard the mutterings of Daveth and Jory behind her, but she paid them no mind.

"Sorry about him," Alistair offered. "The slap was an impressive response, though." He managed a hint of a smile.

“You didn’t tell me what you thought,” she told him. “Of that witch and her daughter. You didn’t mention them to Duncan.”

“Oh, them. The girl worries me. The woman’s just an old hag who talks too much.”

“But why not tell him?”

He shrugged and shook his head gently in thought. “They did us a favor. If the apostate stays in her neck of the woods, I don’t see a need to disturb them.”

“It’s good of you.”

“Maybe.”

"What's that?" she gestured to the necklace in his palm. There was a brief silence.

"You'll know soon," was his only answer.

"You do realize this is all rather morbid." It was her attempt to lighten the mood. She wasn't sure it really worked. He only looked at her. She could have kept talking, kept digging a deeper hole. She didn't. She looked back at him, and kept looking even as he looked away.

His features were handsome, she had to admit. Even the shadow that the old ruins cast and the sadness now plainly written on his face couldn't hide that. The old witch was right on that account. He wasn't too handsome, though. Not like Cullen. She appreciated that about him. Cullen was so handsome and chiseled that it made him seem cold, hard and unforgiving. It wouldn't have bothered her so much if she didn't know, all too well, that there was a quiet, dark part of him that gave truth to that. Alistair's attractiveness wasn't trying to call attention to itself. It was conventional, and comforting. His hair was only a shade darker than hers and his eyes were honey. He was clean-shaven. She liked his face, she decided. She liked it more than most. Even more than she liked Duncan's, who had looked warm, kind and almost holy as he took her hand in his, leading her away from her prison. Yes, she liked Alistair's even more than that.

She placed her hand gently on his bicep. Before he could acknowledge her, Duncan's nearby footfalls reached their ears. He held in his two hands a modest looking chalice that was perhaps made of ivory, and he walked as if each step carried with it the weight of the whole world.

"Finally. We've—" Jory started.

"Alistair, if you will." Duncan took no notice of the man, setting the cup on a stone pedestal.

She felt, faintly, the air released from Alistair's preparatory breath against her neck, and could sense the shakiness in his lungs. _He is nervous_ , she realized, briefly. The discovery made her uneasy.

"Join us, brothers and sisters." Alistair began—a rehearsed monologue. One he dreaded repeating. But, Solena knew, Daveth and Jory wouldn't have been able to tell. "Join us in the shadows, where we stand vigilant. Join us as we carry the duty that cannot be forsworn. And should you perish, know that your sacrifice will not be forgotten. And, that one day, we shall join you."

Daveth and Jory looked confused. A voice in the back of her head told her that she had always known, deep down, what the price must have been. From everything she had ever read in all her books, the reclusive Wardens and their burden was by far the most grim. Her books didn't speak of a price. Everything recorded on Grey Wardens was vague and ominous. But she knew there must be one. She knew it had nothing to do with gold. Duncan's voice rang in her ears.

"Our order was formed during the First Blight, when humanity stood on the verge of annihilation. So it was then that the first Grey Warden drank of darkspawn blood, and mastered their taint. And so was the first Joining."

"We're going to drink the blood of those… _things_?" Jory could scarcely voice his shock. She remembered spilling the blood that was now in that chalice. Her first. She remembered the power that had surged through her, and the… _other_ feeling as well. The rush. The elation. She had snapped the neck of one of those hideous creatures from yards away and watched the life leave its body. She had seen that before, once. One of her instructors at the tower was old and feeble and the life was leaving his body after ninety or so long years. She had liked him—he was a stubborn man, stuck in his ways, with a harsh tongue, but he had taught her well, and his quick temper matched hers. So she volunteered to watch over him in his final hours. He had no family. She held his hand and pressed a washcloth to his head as he went.

It was not the same.

"As the first Grey Wardens did before us. As we did before you." Duncan confirmed. "The taint is the source of our power, and our victory. Those who survive the joining become immune to its harsher effects."

"'Those who survive'?" Jory questioned, nervously. He was ignored.

"Daveth, step forward."

Duncan grabbed the chalice in both hands and held it towards Daveth, who looked at the simple thing as if it had transformed before his eyes. Daveth had said not minutes prior that he would pay any price. He knew he had something to prove to every person in this room, or he was a coward. After a moment's hesitation he stole the cup from Duncan's hands, squeezed his eyes shut and washed down the liquid.

It did not take long to know. His fingers began to claw desperately at his neck as he gasped for air and collapsed to the floor. From the side, Solena noticed his eyes had rolled back into his head. She would have shuddered, but she did not have enough feeling in her body to do so. His nose began to bleed, and then his eyes, and before long he was dead. Alistair closed his eyes. Duncan hung his head.

"I am sorry, Daveth."

Jory's sword was drawn before Duncan could even pour the next vial. Alistair placed his hand on the hilt of his own sword and maneuvered himself between Solena and the foolish man.

"Stand down, Jory." Duncan's calm demeanor put Jory to shame. She wished that he could see that.

"N-no. You ask too much. Had I known…"

"There is no turning back." Duncan approached him now, slowly, with the cup in hand.

"There is no glory in this!" he insisted, swinging his sword to guard him from both Alistair and the man in front of him.

Duncan had disarmed and gutted the knight in one fell swoop, before he could take another step. Solena watched the blood and innards spill from him and onto the floor and felt little. Alistair's feet were frozen to the spot. He was horrified.

"I am sorry, Jory."

Time seemed a blur as she processed what must happen in the moments that would follow. Though, she already knew the conclusion she would come to—the one she's not sure she would have come to only but a few weeks prior. Ever since she stepped outside Kinloch Hold and felt the wind through her hair and the earth under her dainty slippered feet, she had made a decision for herself then and now and for the end of time: if it was death or her cage, then death was safer.

Duncan moved closer. She could not hear the words he spoke. Red clouded her vision.

All those years locked up in that glorified prison…she must have gone mad. That _must_ have been it, because every other explanation for her own complacency frightened her. How was it, that when that Templar stood above her, a girl of eight, marring her face with his armored fist, she could only recoil into herself at the shame of her crime and not his? That she would retreat to her small bed and weep for her own sins and not his? How was it that she could let Templars drag mages away—men and women she once broke bread with in the commons—never to be heard from again, and still remain silent? How was it that when Cullen accosted her in the library that…that _fucking_ night, when he had placed his gloved, sharp hands on her and gripped her arms with the intent to _hurt_ her for her rejection, when he had not stopped—not at the tears in her eyes, or the blood on her forearm, or her gentle protests—not until she had looked him in the eyes and _begged_ for him _not_ to do what he had come there to do…how was it that she forgave him? How was it that she let him treat her as a friend, even a year after the worst night of her life? Maker forgive her, she remembered lying in her cold bed one shameful night and thinking of him and his hands that could pierce her skin while she…while she…

She would never beg for anything again.

She grabbed the chalice and drank her fill. She choked on the blood and the world went black.

* * *

The dragon's screech left a ringing pain in her ears even as her eyes opened on the physical world. What had felt like a fever dream had come and gone, and she now looked upon a face that grounded her. The fear was gone. She was free.

"She wakes." Duncan smiled warmly, and glanced upwards of where she lay on the hard, jagged-edged floor. Her brain registered armored footsteps approaching. Duncan lay a hand upon her shoulder, warning her against rising too quickly. "Welcome. I wish I could stay longer to make sure of your good health, but I believe Alistair will see to you. I must meet with the King and his General at once—I believe I am already late. When you feel well enough, I would invite you and Alistair to join. The King has requested an audience with you both."

Alistair's irritated voice spoke from over her shoulder. It was now that she realized he had propped her head up in his lap. "Why would Cailan—"

"It is not my place to question the King's demands. Nor is it yours. I warn you to arrive at the meeting with an open mind, Alistair."

"I…of course."

"I'll take my leave of you."

Duncan left without another word, and without platitude, which Solena appreciated immensely.

She had come to terms very quickly with what had happened with Jory. Understood it, even. The Joining was secret for a reason. She knew why, now. Killing that man…it didn't make her respect Duncan any less.

Her thoughts had kept her so busy since Duncan's footfalls had faded that she hadn't noticed the silence. Alistair took the liberty of breaking it.

"I keep thinking about his family," he started. "You know, the wife and the unborn child. I keep thinking…I keep…I don't know."

She hated this. She didn't want to talk about this. But she couldn't leave it there. She knew if it were her, he'd say something comforting. He didn't even know her, but he'd make her feel better.

"Keep thinking it could be you?" she offered, her head still resting delicately on his lap. Her comment clearly confused him.

"I—no. Maker forbid, I've never had the time for women. Or the…ahem, product thereof." She would bet good coin that if she looked up, she could see the heat on his cheeks. He continued. "I just…I'd hate to know what that feels like. To have something you couldn't bear to lose."

"You don't want anything in your life worth dying for?" She thought only of her freedom.

"I don't want anything in my life I'm scared of dying for. His wife in Redcliffe will live in poverty. His child will be raised without a father. I…I don't know. Maybe it's better. How can you dedicate yourself completely to a cause when you've got something like that back home?"

"Better what? Better that he didn't make it? It's not better. Dead is dead. And if you don't have something to fight for, then that's what you might as well be. Don't you care about anything?" She stood up. He moved half-heartedly to stop her, and failed. She glared back at him.

"I care about killing the blighted darkspawn. I care about saving the bloody country so that people like Jory's family can live out the hard winter in peace, that's what I care about. Does that matter to you at all, or is this whole thing just a convenient alternative to the Circle?"

"Stop it. You don't know what you're talking about. You don't…everything I've been through…"

Alistair was silent. After a moment he pawed at something around his neck, tugged, and threw it to her.

"I know one thing."

It was the pendant. There was blood inside the tiny flask now. It should have shocked her. She should have dropped it and watched it shatter on the ground—that's what any other girl her age would have done. But she didn't feel her age. In that moment, she felt a hundred years old and hollow inside. She ran her thumb over the glass, in quiet reverence. The weight of the small thing grounded her. She had asked, an age ago, what it was for. Alistair told her that she'd know soon. He was right. She knew what the price was now.

And if she had stayed in her Tower, her _safe_ Tower, none of the books in the world would have answered that question for her.

"You don't have to keep it, if it's too _morbid_ for you. It's just ceremony—blood left over from the chalice. If you—"

"Thank you."

She put it on without a second thought. He stood and observed her, carefully, as if for the first time.

"Mine was…not as bad as yours," he admitted. "Only one of us died. And Duncan didn't have to…"

"I'm sure it was still difficult for you. You don't need to qualify it. I saw your face before, and during. It was like you were back there, all over again."

It wasn't something he couldn't respond to, she knew. But what he heard, it seemed he appreciated.

"Your head alright? I know my Joining gave me one hell of an ear-ringing."

"Yeah, yeah. I'm fine."

"Come on. Let's get you some supper and head on over to the war council."

Alistair's hand, though gloved in mail, was warm against her back.

* * *

"Loghain, my decision is final. I will stand with the Grey Wardens during this attack."

She and Alistair walked the length of the hall on their way to the meeting, and they could just make out the King's voice. But the man shone like a beacon from wherever he stood. His entire person was armored in the purest gold—intricate armor engraved top-to-bottom with the skull and winding horns of a dragon. His hair was golden, too. He was certainly a large man, though not particularly tall, and he was certainly not the most beautiful man to have walked the Earth, as so many young, hopeful girls in the Tower had assured themselves of. Solena could see remnants of features that might have once been full and handsome and Princely if not Kingly, but he was now gaunt and so, so pale…nearly translucent. It was like he were some sort of walking ghost. And he had a tired face. Not more tired, though, than Loghain, his most trusted General. He was only armored in a dull silver metal, and stood beside his King, poring over a map as his black hair fell so as to hide the features of his face. He shook his head and sighed deep—a sound which traveled the length of the hall and was felt in the hearts of each soul present.

"You risk too much, Cailan. The darkspawn horde is too dangerous for you to be playing hero on the front lines."

"Well, if that's the case, perhaps we should have pursued the help of the Orlesian forces with greater fervor."

"How fortunate that Maric did not live to see his son ready to hand his empire over to those who enslaved us for a century. Our numbers are limited, yes, but I must repeat my protest to your fool notion that we need the Orlesians to defend ourselves. Your Uncle, had the Maker only granted us more time, sent word that Redcliffe forces should arrive within the week."

"I suspect Eamon only wants in on the glory." The King laughed to himself. "That aside, seeking Orlesian aid was not a fool notion. You will remember who is King. But with or without them, we've won thirteen battles against these monsters, and this one shall be no different."

"This is no simple skirmish, Cailan. The cost will be great. If what Duncan reports holds true, the darkspawn are to arrive en masse. I fear their numbers will be greater than we expect."

Alistair led her to a spot around the room where they would be mostly out of sight. Other than the King and Loghain, Duncan stood at the table, along with some of Kinloch Hold's high ranking mages, which she recognized. The most prominent among them was Uldred—a small, bald man with dark angular brows and a crooked nose. She had known him from afar. He was a great leader and instructor back at the Tower and well-liked among the younger, Libertarian mages. Jowan had spoken of him highly and often. Next to him was an older white-haired woman she recognized as Mother Hanna, dressed in her fine Chantry robes—the colors of sunset. She looked peeved.

The King tore his gaze away from Loghain. "Duncan, are your men ready for battle?"

"They are, your majesty."

Cailan caught her eye, and clearly recognized her in an instant from the brief introduction they had had on her way into the camp. His face turned from exhaustion to childlike joy in the blink of an eye. If he took notice of Alistair, he did not show it.

"Loghain, this would be the recruit I met on the road. Solena Amell, come to the Wardens from Ferelden's Circle. Duncan has spoken rather highly of her and her abilities."

At the her mention, she moved forward to the table. Alistair must have thought this too bold, as he grabbed gently at her wrist as she moved. He would not stop her. If the King wished to speak to her, he could do so directly or not at all.

"Charmed." It did not escape her that this was nothing more than a rehearsed pleasantry for the General, but she did not pay it much mind. He eyed her only briefly, and with immense disinterest. The more she looked at him the more she recognized him as an ugly man. His eyebrows curved into a permanent glare, and his angry eyes were the color of the steel of his armor and sword. He had more of a pointed beak than a nose and fat, dry lips. The deep purple hues in the creases under his eyes were the only colors on an otherwise milky grey face.

"I understand congratulations are in order. Every great Warden is needed now more than ever. You should be honored to join their ranks." His smile was proud and hopeful, all for a woman he did not know. Solena would have doubted his sincerity if not for the knowledge that she was a fly in the ointment and he was King. Feeding her niceties would gain him nothing.

"Thank you, your majesty." She bowed her head and dipped slightly, as she had read she was expected to.

"You should know, all of you, that I expect to win the night." Cailan spoke as if addressing a nation, not a small congregation of seven or so. "I hope for a war like in the tales: A King riding among the fabled Grey Wardens against a tainted army!"

Loghain, as well as the rest, had to keep from rolling their eyes.

"Your fascination with glory and legends will one day be your undoing, Cailan. Tonight, we must attend to reality. This horde could be at our doorstep within the hour," he spit.

"Fine, speak your strategy. The Grey Wardens and I draw the darkspawn into charging our lines, and then—"

"You will alert the tower to light the beacon, signaling my men to charge from the flank. The field behind the tower should provide enough cover for us to remain hidden."

"I remember. Which brings me to the reason I called your charges, Duncan: the Tower of Ishal. I need a small team of men to light it, when the time comes."

Alistair moved for the first time in a long while beside her. It was a quick jolt—as if he were suddenly wide awake. Loghain began to protest first.

"I have a few men stationed there. They will suffice. It is not a large task, and Grey Wardens are not errand-boys, as I'm sure Duncan well knows."

"But it is vital, yes?" Cailan argued. "So we must send our best. What Alistair can do with a sword is nothing to scoff at."

"While that may be—"

"It is done, Loghain."

"Your majesty, If I may…" Duncan began. Cailan gave him a curt nod. "You must consider the possibility of an Archdemon appearing."

The room was silent, save for the hustle and bustle of the camp outside. Loghain seemed most pensive. He spoke first.

"There have been no signs of any dragons in the Wilds."

"True. Isn't that what your men are here for, Duncan?" Cailan asked, raising an eyebrow.

Duncan's face flashed disappointment, and then quickly reverted to its regular poised state.

"I…yes, Your Majesty."

"Your Majesty," Uldred's adenoidal voice requested. "The tower and its beacon are wholly unnecessary. The Circle of Magi—"

"We will not trust any more lives to your spells, mage," Mother Hanna interjected. "Save them for the darkspawn."

"Enough," Loghain boomed. "This plan will suffice. The Grey Wardens will light the beacon."


	11. Alistair II

# Alistair

"No.”

It was all he could say, he was so bloody frustrated.

            “Alistair, please. See reason.”

            “No, I won’t bloody do it. If he thinks I’m going to abandon my brothers on the front lines for a task for some half-wit, he’s lost his marbles. Should I pick him up some milk and grain from the market while I’m at it? You know why he’s done this. You know it, I know it, and he knows it. It’s…it’s…it’s…” Duncan waited for him to finish. Alistair knew that face well. “It’s horseshit. With…with all due respect, Ser.”

            “Are you quite done?” Solena inquired from where she leaned on the wall—removed from the conversation but not so much so where she couldn’t irritate him.

            “Oh, I’m sorry, did you have something constructive to add?”

            “No, I’m just waiting for silence so I can get my head straight before tonight. Maker’s breath, you sound like Jory.”

            “Enough!”

            At Duncan’s voice, shame flooded him.

            “I will hear no more of this childishness—not tonight. You are both Grey Wardens. Act like you know what that means.”

            “Ser, I…” Alistair started. Duncan raised his hand in protest.

            “I won’t hear it. No more, and no apology. Do your duty.”

            And then the sound of the bells shook Alistair to his core. They reverberated in his head until they blocked out all other noise and all he could think was _no, no, not yet. They can’t be here yet._ Solena stirred next to him. Duncan looked to the night sky. An eerie calm overtook the man before he removed a satchel from around his shoulders and handed it pointedly to Alistair.

            “You know what this is, and why. Take it. Keep it safe. If it is lost, so are we.”

            Alistair secured the bag around his body and nodded curtly.

            “Get to your stations, both of you. We will have great need of you soon enough.” Duncan turned to leave.

            “Duncan, please—” he stopped him. He had to.

            “Maker’s breath, child, there is no time for that now.”

            “All I wanted…I just…Maker be with you.”

            Duncan nodded, accepting the gesture, and returned it with a small smile before walking off.

“Alistair. Alistair, come on, we have to go.” She was pulling at his arm now, and all he could do was stand there stupidly. He would rather die. He would rather self-combust on the spot than spend this battle babysitting her.

His brothers would _die_ out there—he knew as much. He knew there would be losses, he was not blind like Cailan. And he knew the Grey Wardens would take the brunt of the attack. The battle plan was designed to ensure it. That was their _duty._ And he…he wanted it to be him. He wanted to…he wanted…

“Alistair!”

“Get your hands off me!” he recoiled away from her and waved his arms wildly but that would not deter the blasted woman. She grabbed his face with both of her hands, unafraid of him.

“Are you here? Are you with me? Listen to me, Alistair, I _need_ you. You can’t be somewhere else right now. Duncan _needs_ you to do this. Your brothers need this. Forget about your fucking pride for just one moment, alright?”

He thinks he nodded, but he couldn’t be sure.

“Okay. Al—alright. Come on, let’s go.” She said, walking just ahead of him and turning back on occasion to make sure he followed.

Exiting the ruins and entering the main camp was night and day. The calm before the storm was no more, and men shouted and dogs barked and soldiers scrambled to fasten the buckles on their armor. The sky was purple and illuminated by the stars and fires on the towers of Ostagar. Smoke filled the air from those fires and the smaller ones on the ground, and the haze of burning wood filled Alistair’s lungs. And all the while, the bells still tolled and made their agonizing sound. He wondered fleetingly as they passed through rows of tents, just how many of these men would see the sun rise. He always thought of that, before a battle. The answer was always grim.

She turned again. She looked at him, _really_ looked at him, and held his gaze. Gave him the same small smile that Duncan had given. He realized, perhaps closer to the back of his mind than the front, that he had been an ass. She had tried, too. Tried to empathize with him and understand him, and had maybe even tried to befriend him. He hadn’t cared. He had been so focused on the battle…the battle he would not even see through. And she had been such an outsider. You could take one glance at her and you’d know. She didn’t belong at a military camp. Even now, standing there in her blue and silver robes—a woman who shared his burden and had paid the same price that he had—he still didn’t buy it. She couldn’t handle this lifestyle. This job, this…this _lighting the beacon_ nonsense, was perfect for her. But him? He had paid his dues. He had seen men and women die in battle _inches_ from him, had looked their families in the eyes and told them that they would not come home. She had only been introduced to the world weeks ago, and he had lived in it for twenty painful years. A part of him that he tried to keep quiet hoped that the Joining would smack some sense into her. If it had, he hadn’t noticed the change.

The Warden’s Oath hung proudly from her neck. She had put it on proudly, as if she had understood what she was doing—what it meant. He wanted to rip it off her.

On the outside of the main camp was where they finally heard the battle waging beneath them—the screams, the clinking metal. The fighting took place beneath the bridge that they now had to cross. On their left and right, soldiers hurried past them. One knocked into Solena, nearly knocking her backwards, but Alistair placed a steadying hand on her back.

As the moving soldiers cleared, the bridge became visible and it was evident the moment she saw the massacre. Arrows flew as did balls of fire from catapults below, bombarding and killing man after man that armed the trebuchets and taking some of the old stone bridge away with them as their screams rang out. Her eyes grew wide and her mouth fell agape but she did not make a sound. When she realized she was being watched, her mouth shut and she grabbed firmly onto his wrist.

“Come on. We have to. Just run, and watch where you’re going.”

            Since bloody _when_ did she think she could—

            She was gone before he could voice his irritation.

            _Fucking hell_.

            He raced to catch up to her before she got herself killed, and in so doing he only nearly missed a fire ball, which instead took out the ledge just behind him. He swore under his breath and kept running, dodging falling soldiers and debris. He didn’t dare glance down at the battle, for his own safety as well as his sanity.

            She had arrived at the other side well before him, alive, if not a bit worse for wear and out of breath. He looked her over for injuries, but it seemed as though she were unscathed.  

            “Listen to me! Don’t you _ever_ run ahead—”

            Solena ignored him, and only nodded towards the stairs ahead of them, where two of Loghain’s men now scrambled from in an apparent horror. He didn’t care. He grabbed her arm.

            “This conversation isn’t over. You could have been killed.”

            She looked at him as if he were incompetent and shook him off, and he suddenly couldn’t remember hating anything more.

            “Open your eyes. Everyone around you is dying. Accept that or don’t, but you won’t hold me back with you. Now look.”

            She looked upwards and he realized now that the men had been sprinting from the Tower of Ishal.

            “You there!” He shouted over the madness and strode towards the man closest to them, Solena in tow. “What happened, man? You were to hold your position until we arrived!”

            “We were, Ser! But the tower is overrun. We don’t know how, but darkspawn…came out of bloody nowhere! Too many to take on our own. The tower is lost!”

            “It can’t be lost—without the signal your Commander won’t know when to charge with reinforcements!”

            “I’m only telling you what I saw, Ser! We can’t hold the bloody thing on our own!”

            Solena, as she was like to do, appeared at Alistair’s side from seemingly nowhere.

            “I’m a mage! Do you think the four of us could retake it with my firing power?”

            The two men looked as if they had been slapped. The one hesitated before he spoke.

            “I…I suppose. Yes. Maybe. There were plenty of the bastards. Thirty…maybe as many as fifty! We left before I could get a good sense of ‘em.”

            Her eyes hesitantly moved to his face.

            Alistair considered her. She was over-confident. He had seen her handiwork out in the Wilds. She was powerful and had a level enough head on her shoulders, but was largely undisciplined and untrained for military combat. He and the other recruits had been inches away from a bolt of lightning to the face, on several counts. He had seen it before. Mages who got their first taste of battle could never restrain themselves. If they didn’t teach mages how to properly wield combat magic, then Alistair wondered what they bloody _did_ teach them up in that Tower.

            But, he could not very well say that she wasn’t eager, as well as too damned smart for her own good. He struggled to admit to himself that the Tower of Ishal would be a lost cause had she not been here, and the battle right along with it.

            “We’ll need a lot of covering fire.”

            It was his silent answer to a question she hadn’t asked, and they both knew it, because when he said it, she beamed at him with her big eyes and slightly upturned lips. He didn’t hate that look.

            “I can do that.”

~~~

            A hard, final squelch filled the room as he sunk his blade into corrupted, rotten flesh. Black blood stained his sword and the white stone floor beneath the foul creature. On the other side of the large, open room—the first floor of the tower—Solena did the same, finishing her fallen victims with the sharp end of her military-issued staff, creating fresh kills. The other two men scouted ahead.

            “You’re not bad, you know,” he found himself saying.

            “Oh?” Solena raised an eyebrow, playing along.

            “I didn’t mean to make you think that you were. I know that you can handle yourself.”

            “I know that too.” She smirked.

            “I’m trying to give you a compliment.”

            “Followed by a pointed critique, I’m sure.” She wiped the blood from the staff on the skirt of her robes and walked his way.

            “Because you need them. You’re cocky and cockiness can get you and those around you killed.”

            “And there we have it.” She sighed, placing her hands on her hips and becoming preoccupied with the ground.

            “I’ve seen it before, in mages. You need to be mindful of your allies. One error in aim and you’ve killed your best man.”

            She laughed dismissively. “Who says you’re my best man?”

            He narrowed his eyes. “I meant in general.”

            “The same could apply to an archer.”

            “And I would give an archer the same advice—why are you so reluctant to listen to me?”

            “It’s written all over you. You treat me like a child. How am I supposed to work with you as an equal when you treat me as if I’m five?”

            “We aren’t equal. I’m the senior Warden here.” He jabbed, with calculated coldness.

            “Well, you should still stop being such an overbearing prick. And I would give a junior Warden the same advice.”

            “You’re insufferable. I can’t believe—”

            “What? That Duncan thinks as much of you as he does of me? Because we’re both here, Alistair, in case you haven’t noticed. This is both of our jobs.”

            “No. I mean I can’t believe that he gave me the babysitting job. Because _that’s_ what this is.”

            She breathed through her nose in rage. For once, she didn’t have a fast, loosely-formed retort. He would have thanked the Maker, but then she spoke.

            “You should have finished your Templar training. You’re just like them.”

            “Floor’s clear! Stairs are this way!” came a voice from the archway. She stormed off in its direction. It was his turn to stand in silence and hate her.

He was wasting his bloody time. If the mage wanted to get herself killed, then she’d better do it and save him the stress of trying to keep her alive just for Duncan’s sake.

            Duncan didn’t hold them in the same esteem. He couldn’t. She was only trying to push him and was spewing nonsense in the process. He had known Duncan since he was old enough to know the pummel of a sword from the pointy end. Come to think of it, it must have been Duncan who taught him that one. The man to which he compared all others could not possibly equate him with this _child_ that cared for nothing and no one but herself.

            He followed after her momentarily. She wouldn’t look at him the rest of the way up.

~~~

            “Were you the only men the General had stationed here?”

            “That’s right, Ser,” the shorter man answered as they walked. “Well, there was another. But he didn’t make it. Poor sod.”

            “I thought there would be more. Out of precaution.”

            The man shrugged. “Just following the Teyrn’s orders, Ser. Loghain couldn’t have anticipated the darkspawn.”

            “Give me your names.”

            “Daren. That there is Ian. The man we lost, we called him Dirk, but his name’s Ned. We only saw him getting dragged away. I wouldn’t hope he’s alive, Ser, but if we find his remains, I’m sure his family’d like to know.”

            Alistair gave him a nod and a firm hand on his shoulder. They had just finished clearing the third floor of most darkspawn, and were making their way to the stairs. They had come across so many on the bottom floors that Alistair doubted the upper levels would give them much trouble.

Though he hadn’t had much time to think on it, the idea of darkspawn in the tower unnerved him. How had they gotten so close to the main camp so quickly? How did they know to attack the tower at _all_?

            “On your right!” Solena called out, but before the men even drew their swords, the three stampeding darkspawn were turned to ash in a flash of blue. The sound of steel sliding back into its sheath echoed throughout the Tower.

            She was just showing off now. She had done this at least three times in their ascension to the tower’s peak. She hadn’t even taken out her staff.

            If he was being very honest with himself, he was no mage-trainer. Mages, for all he knew about them, which was more than most, still confused him. Maybe he was approaching her all wrong. Maybe she was right, and he should leave the advice-giving to Duncan or Wynne or bloody _Sellius_ and just leave her be. They’d both be happier for it.

            Who was he kidding? He was climbing to the top of the Tower with a handful of military rejects. He was in no place to give advice to anyone. Maybe that’s what she had meant. “ _We’re all in this shithole together, so how about you shove it and just do your job?_ ” If she had just come out and said that, he might have done so. To know that she felt as miserable as he did might have softened the whole situation.

            In an effort to test his theory, he glanced her way. She glanced back, clearly unsure of his motives. A hair came loose from her braid on the far side of her face as she turned to him, and suddenly he remembered that he thought she was pretty. He stretched his lips in a small, apologetic smile. She did not return one, but she didn’t glare at him either, which he took as a good sign. It would suit him fine if they didn’t like each other, but they couldn’t go on like this.

            “You’re a good fighter,” he said. He didn’t care if Loghain’s men heard him.

            She sighed, clearly dreading the fact that he had chosen to speak to her. “But…?”

            “Nothing. You’re a good fighter. You have no practical combat training, but it still comes naturally to you. That’s above the norm. It…doesn’t matter what I think beyond that.”

            He thought he detected a hint of a smile, but he wouldn’t have bet his life on it.

            “You really don’t like me,” she noted. It wasn’t a question. And thank the Maker it wasn’t, because he didn’t know how to answer it.

            After that, he adopted silence as his new policy.

~~~

            They had heard it on the fourth floor, walking above them.

            The ogre was twenty feet tall and its flesh was a sickly purple, though it was not immune to the blackened rot that made up the faces of other darkspawn. Flesh-ridden skulls hung from a makeshift belt on its waist. Horns the color of ebony were embedded onto the top of its head in a way that seemed quite painful, and its face was only a shell of what one should be: a missing nose and eyes sunken in to such a degree that the sockets seemed black and hollow. Its sharp, sparse teeth were shredding a torso that seemed to have once belonged to a soldier. Its other hand lazily held the soldier’s bottom half, and blood and innards spilled like a waterfall from it and onto the floor with an unceremonious _splat_.

            Alistair couldn’t remember ever being as terrified as when he saw it standing between them and that beacon.

            A roar erupted from its mouth, thick saliva and blood flying in every direction.          Loghain’s men were clearly shitting in their trousers, but they at least paid attention to Alistair’s nonverbal gesture to make their way to the ogre’s flank. Solena was already out of his sight.

            With Loghain’s men distracting the beast from two separate directions, Alistair charged at its front, hacking at its legs like a Dwarven child at a Qunari warlord. If he had been watching the whole thing from a safe distance, it might have been laughable.

Only when the ogre was properly distracted and swinging at the three swords beneath it did the mage’s attacks come. Bursts of electric blue energy assaulted the monster’s face and knocked it backwards. As it was caught off-guard, Alistair hacked away.

The beast recovered quickly. A hand as big as a horse swung down, narrowly missing Alistair. It grabbed at one of Loghain’s men instead, Ian, and raised him high in the air before smashing him back down, likely crushing his chest and ribs. The ogre’s hand opened and his corpse tumbled out.

He heard the angry yells of Daren, and Solena’s attacks only grew stronger. In response, the ogre only grew more irritated. Its hands swung wildly, threatening to bash against Alistair who still attacked beneath it. Eventually, they did not miss.

Alistair could feel his chestplate being squeezed against his ribs as he was lifted and swung haphazardly. Preparing to die, as it happened, was a stranger feeling than he had expected. He thought about Duncan, down on the field. But mostly he thought about how he didn’t have much to think about. His heart beat erratically faster at the realization, until all the lights in the room went out.

It wasn’t the darkness he had expected—not yet. He could still feel the crushing hand around him. A chill swept through the tower—so cold that he could see the ogre’s labored breaths. Other than that, the sudden silence was deafening.

Though he felt himself fading in and out of consciousness, he began to see and hear the faint outlines of blue electric shocks on the ceiling. They appeared gradually, growing in size and power. A misty cloud, or so it appeared, began to form above the beast’s head. And the storm only grew louder and more violent. A painful sound rang out from the ogre that he recognized as a scream of agony. He felt the ogre dropping to its knees, and as it did so Alistair fell a good distance from its hand and onto the hard floor. There was pain there, but his mind stored it away for later. He could not process anything but the scene in front of him.

            The screams didn’t end for what felt like minutes. It must have been another minute between the pound of the ogre’s corpse hitting the ground and when the flames on the torches reappeared from seemingly nothing, the room once again filling with light. Though it was not long before darkness began to cloud Alistair’s vision once again.

            “Bloody light it, I’ve got to tend to him!” A woman’s voice. It was so panicked and broken that he almost couldn’t recognize it. He heard light footsteps approaching, and soon felt hands struggling with his chestplate.

            “ _Maker’s breath…”_ he heard her say, and a part of him realized that his injuries must be bad. He heard a soft hum as some pain was alleviated. His throat could not form a _thank you._

            A loud noise sounded behind his head that would have startled him had he not felt so distinctly unalive.

            “The door!” The man shouted from the beacon, which was now lit.

            _Good_ , he thought. _Duncan will be pleased. The battle will be won._

Something whizzed through the air just over his face. He could not put a finger on what it was, until he realized that the comforting hands were no longer moving over him. He could no longer hear the soft hum. The pain returned.

            Solena’s eyes were wide. An arrow had lodged itself in her shoulder. It was too close to her heart. He saw the blood, and felt an intense panic. She fell to her side. Then, all at once, came the darkness he had expected. Somewhere in the distance, wings flapped.

~~~

            The witch’s yellow eyes woke him.

            “Do not get up. Your injuries are mostly healed, but it’s nothing that cannot be undone by your stupidity.”

            She moved quickly away from him and rushed to the other side of the room, pretending to look at books on a shelf. As if he had burned her. She had been watching him, he realized.

            He was in a small room on a small bed that seemed as if it were barely holding together under his weight. A fire was lit in a cobblestone hearth at his feet. The young witch— _Morrigan_ , he remembered, was dressed in the same tattered clothes that he had seen her in before: black patchwork trousers under a sash made of leather and black feathers covered her bottom half. A dirty and worn band covered her small breasts, and a deep purple fabric draped loosely around her torso. More feathers and leather covered one arm, and the other was left bare, as if she had run out. He watched her as she put her leather gloves back on. There were holes in the fingers, and he struggled to understand whether or not it was intentional.

            “Must you gawk? You remember me, do you not?” She stepped closer, less afraid of him now.

            In an attempt to get his bearings, Alistair pushed himself up onto his hands. The room rocked his vision, and suddenly the witch’s hawk-like face became blurry.

            _“Men_ ,” he heard her spit. “If you must ignore my advice, at least go slowly.”

            His airways could form words. It was as if he had forgotten how to do that.

            “Where…am I? What…”

            “In the heart of the Wilds. My mother’s hut. Nowhere you have not been before.”

            His vision cleared. But all he could see were wide, icy eyes, in shock as she fell unconscious, and blood—red, red blood…

            Alistair swung his legs over the edge of the bed in a frenzy. Morrigan shot backwards in response, but his eyes searched hers desperately for answers.

            “ _The battle._ Maker, _Solena_ …where is she? Is…is she?”

            “No. Mother performed nothing short of a miracle in healing her, considering her injuries were grave. Last I saw her she was outside, by the lake. She…is not taking it well.”

            “I want to see her. I have to see her.”

            “That would not be wise.”

            “Why bloody not?” he yelled.

            It was not the anger in his voice that made Morrigan look at him the way she now did. No, it was…something else. What he thought might have been pity left her face as quickly as it had settled there.

            “ _Not taking it well_? What…what are you talking about?” he said, only now processing her words.

            “The battle was lost.”

            _No._

            “The General who was to respond to your call quit the field.”

_I’ll kill him._

            “Every man remaining was slaughtered.”

            _I saw it. I fucking saw it in his eyes. I said nothing. I said—_

“The King is dead.”

            Alistair stood. He moved to push past her, but he was weak, and she steadied him, holding him back.

            “The field. The field. Duncan’s in the field. I have to…We have…The Wardens…count our losses, count our dead…”

            “ _No_.”

            “Duncan…”

            “Every man in that field is dead. You…would not want to see those ruins now.”

            He saw it. In her eyes. _She’s been there. She’s seen it._

            “Take me there. I have to go. I have to know. Duncan…He needs…”

            “Your man Duncan is dead. I saw the fields myself. Believe me or do not, you will not make it back there. You will die first. Darkspawn plague the swamps and forests outside the ruins for miles. I fear even this hut may not be safe for long.”

            He felt his body collapse, and this time Morrigan could not hold his weight. He crumpled into his knees as the dry heaving racked his stomach. Gasps for air eventually mixed with screams of anguish, so much that he could not tell them apart.

~~~

            Alistair found her at sundown where Morrigan had found her that morning. She sat knees to chest in the tall grass, looking out over the cattail-ridden lake, a red sunset reflected back onto her soft face. Blonde hair fell loosely from her head, and she was dressed in a worn lilac shift that must have once suited Morrigan’s tastes, but clearly did so no longer. The cold air of the Wilds did not seem to faze her bare arms and legs. Alistair, not but a day ago, might have recognized the scene as beautiful. But he was numb to it now. All he saw was the red.

She floored him. The weight of her, of what she had done…and for _him._ When he had treated her how he did, and she… she…

It was her. She was the reason he was here instead of dead. Dead, with his brothers.

“You…” it was more a breath than a word, but she heard it. She turned her head so he saw her in red profile. She had been crying.

“Alistair, I’m so sorry.”

He didn’t hear the words.

“I thought you were dead.”

Solena gave him a tight smile and glanced down at the grass. “I’m fine.”

He felt a sharp pull at the sight of her and came to sit next to her. Silence fell upon them like a tidal wave. The crickets and cicadas made their noises, and the frogs did too, and he could feel the stinging cool breeze against his cheek.

It amazed him how much life was in the Wilds, when so much death was so, so close.

“I can’t believe they’re all gone,” she said.

It was the last thing he wanted to hear, but he let her talk. He did not have the energy to argue.

“Are we…are we all that’s left?”

He wasn’t going to answer, but she was looking at him and her eyes were still red and he had to say _something_.

“Yes,” he said, truthfully. “Every Fereldan Warden was in that field. It was all we had.”

“Or in the tower.”

He didn’t respond. He could have elaborated, but he didn’t care to. Every last Warden was killed in the battle, and that was true. Except her.  Except him. He was spared.

“Alistair, I’m sorry,” she said again. She placed her hand on top of his amidst the grass. He couldn’t really even feel it.

~~~

            A red sun set, and so a red sun rose.

            No one at the hut paid it any mind.

            Breakfast that morning was a farce. The four of them—Alistair, Solena, Morrigan and her mother, sat around the fire outside the hut. Alistair pushed around his brown stew, making lazy patterns with his spoon. He could feel Morrigan grimacing at his behavior across from him, but he didn’t look up. Solena ate like a bird.

            Neither of them must have slept, then, given the puffy bags under Solena’s eyes. Maker knows he didn’t. He hadn’t even tried.

            None of them were speaking to each other. He hadn’t yet thanked Morrigan and her mother, which a part of him felt guilty for. But it was hard to thank someone for a gift you didn’t want.

            “Your injuries have healed. You both must leave today. Before the sun looks down on us, you must go.” The old witch spoke matter-of-factly, breaking the uneasy quiet.

            Alistair half-heartedly glanced up at her, preparing to agree and force out a dispassionate _thank you_. But Solena, with her now furrowed brow, was the first to talk.

            “And go _where_? We won’t make it out of the Wilds, if what your daughter says is true. Darkspawn surround this place.”

            “And it will not be long before they close in, and swallow it whole. You must go now, while you still have a chance.” The old woman stood to clean her bowl. Solena stood with her.

            “Am I supposed to buy that you and your daughter are going to stay and die here? Or is it that you just want us gone?”

            “Neither. Morrigan will be leaving with you.” The witch offered a smile, with one too many teeth missing from it.

            “ _What?_ ” Morrigan stood now with the other two, her bowl forgotten. “Mother. You cannot mean this. I…I am not ready!”

            “Then you will never be ready. Since you were up to my knees you’ve wanted to leave me, girl. Now is your chance.”

            “Surely I am mishearing you. If you think I will abandon these Wilds to the Blight, you are _very_ much mistaken.”

            “I am mistaken in nothing. You are not to stay here. You knew this day would come as well as I. After all, where these Wardens are going, they will need your help. As for you two, consider this your payment to me, for all I have done for you. She may even prove useful.” The witch let out a hearty laugh.

            “What do you mean, ‘ _where we’re going’_?” Solena grew visibly more irritated with every word the old crone spoke.

            The witch shrugged jovially, and pointed a wrinkled finger to where Alistair sat, one knee up, on the ground. “Ask him.”

            They were all looking at him now—Solena with a look of utter confusion. Reluctantly, he removed Duncan’s satchel from his shoulder.

            “He gave…he gave me these, before the battle,” he began. “Probably…probably in case something like this happened.

            “Alistair, what…”

            “Treaties. The Grey Wardens, we have allies to call upon in case of a Blight. The last one was hundreds of years ago, so, I guess we’re lucky to have found these.”

            The witch gave a small smile.

            “Who are they for?” Solena moved closer to him now, looking over his shoulder at the papers he now held in his hands.

            “We have one with the Elven clan camped outside the Brecilian, one with the Dwarves of Orzammar, and one with the Circle Tower.”

“Well, that’s not nothing, right? That’s an army!” The eagerness in Solena’s voice frightened him.

“What are we going to do with an army, Solena? Loghain will name it treason, no doubt. With his daughter on the throne by default, he’ll be pulling all the strings he couldn’t with Cailan. He’ll have us executed.”

“He has to know that the Blight will push north. He can’t be that naïve.”

“He thought the Blight trivial enough to thwart the Battle at Ostagar, so maybe he thinks he can stop it on his own.”

“That’s insane. He’s a seasoned general, how could he think that?” she questioned.

“I don’t know, Solena!” Alistair stood. “The man killed his King! He killed _every man on that field_. My brothers!”

“Mine too.”

He glared at her. She glared back.

“What, will you deny me that now? After what we’ve both been through? I saved your life.”

“Yes, well, you shouldn’t have.”

“Fuck you,” she spat, but she was exhausted. He could see it in her eyes. She was tired of arguing. So was he. “You’re here now, Alistair. You don’t have to like it, but you’re here. Do you think Duncan would want you stuck out here in the middle of the woods feeling sorry for yourself? Sorry for being alive?”

He could have strangled her, had he not known she was right.

“Don’t,” was all he said. His hands were balled into fists.

“If I may,” the old witch spoke. “Your General may very well be unpredictable. Men’s hearts hold secrets darker than any tainted creature. But I would point out that such an army is your only hope to push back a Blight, regardless of what this Loghain does. If you choose to shut your eyes in ignorance, Ferelden will fall. Is it not the Grey Wardens’ duty to protect against darkspawn, or did that change while I wasn’t looking?”

            “It hasn’t changed,” Alistair shot back. Defeated, he looked back over the papers in his hands. “But...it’s not enough. Morrigan said the horde was massive, almost a hundred thousand strong and growing by the hour. You said you saw darkspawn coming from a hole in the ground?”

            Morrigan nodded. “A few miles south of here, near the edge of the map.”

            “Could you take me there?”

            “No. The darkspawn may have abandoned most outposts in the Wilds, but if darkspawn are made there, underground, then that area will be infested with the beasts. Especially now, when they think they are safe. It would not be wise.”

            She seemed convinced, so Alistair fell back to square one.

            “Alright, fine. But we’ll need more men than this. I…I think I have an idea. We may be able to call on Arl Eamon, of Redcliffe. I know him well, he’s a good man. He would hear out our cause. And he would want to bring Cailan’s killer to justice. He might have the men we need, and if he doesn’t, he can tell us where to find them.”

            “That sounds like an army to me.” The old woman gave a smile he hesitated to describe as gentle.

            Alistair filed the treaties away back in Duncan’s bag.

            “We don’t know how to thank you—you haven’t even told us your name.”

            “Young man,” she placed her boney hand on his fist that gripped the handle of Duncan’s pack. “I give to you that which is most precious to me in this world—that which I hold above all else. I do this because I have faith in _you._ That is how you thank me.”

            Alistair glanced briefly at Morrigan, who stood a bit away from the three of them. Had she not held herself with such dignity, she would have been a sad sight. Her already pale face was drained and tired. She looked miserable. She was a grown woman, her mother had no real right to decide on her behalf. But he supposed it was for her own good. He had no earthly idea how the skinny girl would be useful, but he could protect her in return for what her mother had given them.

            “I understand,” he told her mother.

            “Good.” The old witch paused in thought. “As for my name…well, some call me Flemeth. I suppose that will do.”

            Alistair’s eyes grew wide, threatening to burst from his skull. He could hear Solena move closer to the two of them.

            “ _The_ Flemeth?” she asked. “Of legend?”

            “Daveth was right... you are The Witch of the Wilds.” Alistair said, incredulously.

            “Bah. And what does that mean? I know a few spells, true, and they have served me well. I can hardly live up to legends. You would do best not to listen to the gossiping of old fishwives.”

            “How did you save us from that tower? How did you get us out in time?” Solena prodded, her curiosity likely getting the better of her.

            One side of Flemeth’s lips drew upward. “Does it matter? I saved your lives and you repay me with pointless inquiries? Perhaps I summoned you here at just the right time. Perhaps I levitated all the way to the top and fended off the horde myself. Perhaps I never got you out at all. Perhaps this is all one long, sadistic dream. Ha!”

            “I get the point. My apologies. I just—” Solena began, crossing her arms in front of her.

            “Apologize for nothing, girl. Your curious mind will take you far.”

            Alistair placed his hand on Solena’s elbow. “We should be going. Grab your things.”

            She nodded and retreated back into the hut. Morrigan, it seemed, was already prepared. She had a back slung across her shoulder and was staring daggers into her mother’s eyes.

            “Morrigan,” he started.

            “Hm?” she answered, switching her focus to him.

            “Do you know a safer way out of the Wilds? One that would avoid running into the horde?”

            “You ask me if I know my own home? Then the answer is yes, I do. It will be a simple thing to go around the ruins. My humble recommendation would then be that we head for the town of Lothering. It is not far north of here, and it may give us an opportunity to gather supplies.” She paused. “Or, if you prefer, I shall simply be your silent guide.”

            The woman perplexed him. “No…no, I think I’d prefer you speak your mind.”

            The old witch cackled, once again, at a joke no one else seemed to hear. “Oh, you will live to regret that.”


	12. Anora I

# Anora

"Open the gates!”

The old, rusted thing was cranked open by lever and pulley, and through it the royal procession came. Each marched one after the other, every one as cold and as lifeless as the last. The midday sun glinted off the soldiers, clad in golden armor head to foot. Cailan would have been pleased.

Her handmaidens stood behind her, flanking her on either side. Each one dressed in their mourning black, just as she had. They had all but demanded they come. To comfort her, they had said. To console her. The poor things had no idea.

The autumn air was cruel and biting. Fitting, she thought, that with her husband’s passing came the first signs of winter.

“Halt! Attention!” All at once, the marching stopped. She could see through her dark veil that the officer had stopped not but a few feet in front of her. She straightened her spine and composed herself.

“All kneel for Her Majesty, Queen Anora Mac Tir, in Andraste’s name, of Ferelden and her people!”

And so they did. 

“You may rise,” she decreed. “At ease.”

The officer, helmet tucked in the crook of his arm, reached into his breastplate and pulled out the dreaded parchment. He broke the seal and unfurled it, all in deafening silence. He raised a golden armored fist to his mouth as he cleared his throat.

“Your Majesty, it is my duty to inform you of the tragic and sudden passing of your husband, His Majesty King Cailan Theirin, First of His Name, by the Maker’s Blessing, of Ferelden and her people. He died nobly and bravely in battle at Ostagar, leading the charge against a great and tainted enemy. His loss is felt at this country’s heart. Our people weep and mourn the death of a great king, and a great man. You have our condolences and deepest sympathies in this difficult time.”

In silence again, he rolled the parchment back into its original shape and placed it in her gloved hand. Anora nodded. The officer turned on his heel.

“Ten-hut! Move out!”

The sound of the marching men eventually faded, and it was over. Her handmaidens rushed her with their kerchiefs, but she had not cried at all. She told them off with a raised hand, and they fell behind her, tending to her black train as she retreated inside the palace. 

The large wooden doors creaked open so loudly that the sound echoed through the desolate main hall. _It would not be so for much longer_ , she thought, sadly. Soon, the all the lords and ladies of the Bannorn and all their sons, daughters, grandchildren, cats and kitchen mice would come to squabble over every last crumb of Cailan’s person. Not just his throne and standing, but who he was and how he lived and how he died. They would dissect his corpse and memory until there was nothing left for her to keep of him. Maybe, just maybe, she could keep his eyes. She always loved his kind, golden eyes. Just as golden as the rest of him. 

“Your Majesty,” her emissary appeared at her side as she walked, falling in line with her. “My deepest sympathies regarding your husband. The palace staff has truly felt his loss.”

“Thank you for your kindness,” she recited.

“I have received word that your father will be arriving in two days’ time, along with his host.”

There was a slight pause in her step, but she covered it quickly and quietly.

“I shall make sure the royal suite is ready to receive him.”

He bowed. “Your Grace.” 

Within a day’s time, the staff had dusted around the suite and straightened the rugs. The next day, they lit all the candles and prepared the dinner. All the while, Anora sat motionless at her vanity mirror. Her needlework, that she had picked up only after Cailan had marched off to battle, sat sad and abandoned by the fire. 

The ashes must still remain, came a thought, of the letter she had burned in there. She would have to have them swept out.

When her handmaidens arrived with the rising sun to fit her into yet another mourning gown, she played the perfect ragdoll. This new one had beautiful floral crochet work that danced about her lean neck, large, flowing sleeves and a suffocatingly cinched waist. They brushed her long blonde hair from scalp to end and braided it into two tight buns at the base of her neck. The buns pulling at her skin were painful and pleasant, and suited her fine.

She was to receive her father in the throne room.

When he marched through the welcoming streets of Denerim that evening with his host of five-thousand, she was alerted by Ser Bryton, the Captain of her Guard, and made her similarly long march to her station. It was as if the wretches had thrown a parade, she realized. And for a losing General. A dejected General, who had fled the field of battle with his tail between his legs. The battle that had killed his King. Anora could not fathom it.

The golden chair was stiff and rigid. More so, she thought, than the last time she had sat in it. Strange. Stranger, even, that an empty chair sat to the right of her own.

The rugs and tapestries in the dull stone room had not yet been switched for black. Instead, they were a vibrant sky blue and spring green that made Anora want to retch. Harvestmere was coming to an end, and Firstfall would begin soon. It was no time for the silly colours of the spring. The decorators should know better.

There was a deafening sort of quiet as she waited for the large wooden doors that seemed so far away from her to be opened—for the bubble of tension filling the room and choking the air from her to finally pop, and give relief at last. Only a few men of her guard lined the perimeter of the throne room, Bryton among them. They seemed needless to her now. The castle had been so empty for so long after Cailan had paraded off. Truly, she knew not how many of his Council survived the battle, aside from her father. Her father…and her. She had survived the battle, in her own way. She survived it by holding down the fort. She survived wallowing in her grief and self-pity. She had survived this miserable kingdom for five years. She could survive it five more, a hundred more, a thousand. What would it matter? She would do it as if it were second-nature. She could do what her husband could not.

When the men moved to open the doors, she realized her hands were cold and wet.

She stood frantically at the sight of him, which was nothing short of terrible. His silver plate armor was dingy and dirty, as if it had been merely grazed with a cleaning rag following the battle. His black hair fell clumsily around his face and hard eyes, which found her and did not lose her as he charged forward into the hall. And he wore that _scowl_. Anora was so worried that the very same scowl graced her face unknowingly, from time to time.

“Father.”

“Anora.”

 He stopped walking a few yards away from her.

His expression was unreadable. As, she suspected, was her own. She tried her very best to look dignified. Before her subjects, poise came easily to her. It was a face she put on along with the rest of her rouge and dress. But her father never truly looked at just her face. He saw through it, beneath it, and past it. He saw a part of her that he had clung to and that she had long since discarded. 

She wished desperately for him to stop. 

Anora folded her hands in front of her and forced a smile on lips that had not pulled so in over a month. “You look tired, Father. Let us retire to the dining hall. It was a long journey for you, I know.”

“It was. I would sooner retire to my chambers, Anora. The hour is late and I must rest.”

“We will retire to the dining hall. The staff has spent the day preparing it for you.”

  “I am not a child to be spoon-fed. I will retire to my chambers and will see you at breakfast. I trust the dining hall will look the same then as it does at present.”

“You—”

“Anora, we will discuss it in the morning,” he commanded through unbridled frustration. “I wish you a good night’s sleep. Maker knows everyone under this bloody roof will need it.”

Her father began the process of removing his gloves as he walked out the door to her left. She felt the slam of the door as it shut even though she did not dare to look. 

Independent of themselves, she felt her legs buckle under her as she fumbled to sit back on her throne. She cradled her head in one of her hands, massaging her temples as the only solace she could find. She felt her maître d’ approach hesitantly beside her, and before he could squawk out some inane question, her vision became clouded with red.

“ _Get out.”_

All of them did.

~~~

She could hear the soft cling of his fork hitting the plate across the long table of the dining hall and she shuddered at the sound. 

Night had come and gone and Anora had not slept through a wink of it. After all, she could wallow like a weighted corpse no longer. Funeral arrangements had to be made. Emissaries needed to be sent to every friendly nation. Unifying talks needed to begin and preparations needed to be made for war. The world at large didn’t sleep, and it would certainly not stop for her heavy heart. She would sleep when she was dead. 

  The Maker himself could not say if her father had slept. Did generals sleep? She found herself wondering. Did soldiers? Did Cailan sleep like a newborn babe the night before he sent those eight thousand men to their deaths? Most like, she concluded. Her husband was never a strategist. How could he know that the battle would go so poorly? His own death surely must have come as a surprise. Perhaps he had not felt the pain after all, or even seen the blood. Perhaps he had only felt the shock. Right up to the end.

  A base cough sounded through the room. “I trust you have fared well here.”

  Anora looked at him and did not blink. Her fork was limp in her hand but she still managed to hold it there.

  “I have.”

  He breathed in sharply through his nose. “Good,” he said. “That’s good.”

  She placed her fork down and her napkin along with it. She was finished with the farce of eating.

  “Court will be full soon. I would imagine that some Lords will arrive as early as today.”

  Her father growled and stabbed at his meat. “Ah. The scavengers are coming to make a meal of us, I see.”

  “Do you know what you’re going to say to them?”

  His voice grew louder. “About what?”

  “Don’t be indignant.”

  “I don’t have to answer to them. If they wanted to see the blasted battle, they should have been there! Beside their King!”

  “Will you not answer to me, then?”

  “Anora.” He grew quiet again. She did not follow up her question, so instead, the silence begged a response from him. “…It was the only way.”

  “I believe you.” And she did. She looked at him and she hated him, but she believed him. “How did it happen?”

  “We were outnumbered. The field was a slaughter. If I didn’t pull back, this country would be without a standing army, and its King would be just as dead.”

  “And Cailan? How did that happen?”

  “I…” something flashed on her father’s face that she didn’t recognize. “I wasn’t there. I wouldn’t know.”

  “I see.”

  “I am…sorry, Anora.”

  She flinched. It was such a reactionary thing. She knew he had seen it, and her game was up. 

  “He was…He was a good man.” He paused. “Like his father.”

  “No, he wasn’t. He wasn’t anything like Maric. You hated him.” She heard herself say the words, but couldn’t attribute them to herself. She would never say that to him. She wouldn’t. It was something they let hang in the air but never addressed, like some foul smell. 

But he hadn’t meant those words. And she would not let him tell lies about Cailan. 

  Her father hesitated to word his response. “Cailan and I had ideological differences. I never hated him.”

  “Is that why you let him go out there? On the front lines? Let him die?” She was emboldened now, and couldn’t stop herself.

  “Your husband insisted. I have no authority over a King.”

  “Did you even think of me? But once, did you think of me and my own happiness?”

  “I thought of you every day!” He slammed fists on the table. Porcelain plates clanked and clattered but did not fall or break. “I thought of this city aflame and your head on a spike if it was left defenseless to the darkspawn horde! I thought of this country— a heaping pile of ash and ruin for you to rule over! Would that make you _happy_ , Anora?”

  “Do not address me as a child.”

  “Then don’t act like one! Your husband died in war. You are not the first woman whose husband has died in _war_.”

  Anora’s chair scraped against the floor and she stood. The rare occasion of her towering above her father gave her a strange sense of pride. She spoke through gritted teeth, her rage escaping through their edges. 

  “I am the Queen.”

  Loghain Mac Tir shook his head. “Maker be praised, let us not have another spoiled child for a monarch.”

~~~

  A week passed, a new month began, and the Court filled. Anora and her father kept to separate parts of the palace. Ser Cauthrien, her father’s right hand, assumed control of his men while he locked himself in his chambers, preparing to address the Bannorn. The men acted as glorified henchmen, stationed at every door the palace had, and even more filled the entrance hall and throne room, where the Landsmeet would take place. 

  She thought the men too brutish and Ser Cauthrien too presumptuous, but truly, it was when Arl Howe arrived that the situation in the palace went from bad to worse.

  Arl Rendon Howe was perhaps the only man Anora had ever seen to be so proud for such a pathetic reputation. He arrived on horseback, with a modest following of about four or five men. They rode in on elegant black horses with blonde manes, native to the northern rocky shores of Ferelden. The rest of his men, he said, were back in Highever, holding the castle against a possible repeat attack of the Alamarri tribe which had sieged it only a few weeks prior. It had been bloody news, for true. Bryce Cousland’s only grandson, a boy of eight, and his daughter-in-law lay butchered in their beds when the moon was highest. Their sons, Stevon and Fergus, died defending the castle. The Teyrn and his wife were killed in each other’s arms. When Howe’s men arrived, far too late after a suspect delayed rendezvous with Cousland’s soldiers, they said they spent hours attempting to identify the bodies of the fallen. So many were torn apart beyond recognition.

  But out of such a tragedy, Anora knew what the worm expected from her, and she would have to be deaf, dumb or blind to give it to him. The opportunistic weasel would put on a show, alright, playing the hero, the grieving friend, until the Court would practically _beg_ her to give him the Teyrnir. She knew better. No, the man was no hero. Her father was a hero. Her father, who had led the charge at the Battle of River Dane back in the days of the Orlesian occupation, was responsible for winning Ferelden its independence, and every man, woman and child at Court knew so. They would tell their children of how he led his battalion and the dwarves’ against an army of chevaliers, and won. Those children would tell their own, and every generation would know the Mac Tir family name forever. Arl Howe could covet all the land he wished, and he would still be the man that had to be carried wounded from the field of battle while his brothers were butchered. Only fifty men had survived the Battle of White River. Rendon Howe was decorated alongside them, for being lucky. 

  Soon after his arrival, Arl Howe was permitted an audience with her father, which Anora found distasteful. If her father wished to convince the people that he was on their side, _counter-productive_ seemed a mild way to describe what Howe emerging next to him at the Landsmeet would do. A larger part of her worried that her father did not care to convince the people of anything. He would leave the diplomacy—the clean-up duty—to her, as he always did. But she could only dress up a kingslayer so much. 

  She could only imagine that was what they all thought. It was the richest story, after all. Teyrn Loghain Mac Tir, the late King Maric’s most trusted friend and confidant, turning on his only son in the heat of battle—Calenhad’s lineage destroyed in one treacherous maneuver. It was what the people always wanted: never the truth, and always what was most palatable to their gossip-starved ears. It would be so much easier for them to smear dirt on a war hero’s legacy, stomping the Mac Tir name into the ground.       

  Anora would not let them, she decided. She would never let them. Not as long as she still drew breath. Her husband and her father, her mother, and even herself, deserved so much more than that. 

  She met her father in the main hall of the royal suite right before the Landsmeet was set to begin. He had dressed himself in the same armor he had worn to battle, and appeared relatively well-rested. At the least, she noted, he had polished the metal. He looked the closest thing to handsome that she could remember him being in months. He was followed, as she had dreaded, by Arl Howe, and also Ser Cauthrien. Cauthrien dressed in armor, too, though it was obviously much more drab than her father’s. She was a handsome enough woman, Anora supposed, and of an age with herself—perhaps a few years younger. Her brown hair was pulled back out of her way and she had no distinctive features, but she was not unattractive. Howe was the only one among the three dressed in vibrant orange silks, though it did little to improve his appearance. The Arl of Amaranthine had beady little eyes, barely-there lips, and a nose that jutted outward at the bridge, but was flat at the tip. His face was nothing short of unfortunate.

  Anora had taken fine care of her appearance, but not too fine. She would not wear armor as her father did, for she was not at the battle. She did not wear something that made her too feminine either, for it was not her fair features that mattered today. Instead, her choice was strong; dignified. Her simple black frock was decaled with gold at the belt, high collar, and cuffs. She decided to wear her crown, after much thought. But she wore a smaller one that she had had made a while ago. The golden crown decorated her head, circling a simple braided bun.

  “Anora,” her father spoke, at the head of his pack of three, walking with vigor. She fell in line beside him. “There has been a development.”

  “How so?”

  “A witness has come forward, from the King’s Army. He shall, for his own safety, remain anonymous. He claims the Grey Wardens influenced the field of battle that night. He says they killed your husband.”

  Anora stopped walking. “That’s madness and heresy. There’s no motive, no sense to it.”

  “Is there not?” Her father raised a dark, wormlike eyebrow and turned on his heels. “Cailan was in contact with the Orlesians—you knew it; I did. He said they were being lofty, unresponsive, but he still had his fool’s hope that they would march in and win him his battle. What better way to cause this country’s undoing than through a third party? Kill our King and send the darkspawn at us from our southern border?”

  “The _Wardens_?” she near shouted, expressing her disbelief. 

  “The majority of that force was Orlesian Wardens, Anora.”

  “We…we need more time to discuss this.” 

  “We don’t have more time. The Bannorn is waiting for an answer. What should I give them? A strong one or an incriminating one?”

  “You would cast aside a potential ally in the Wardens! Our only hope to stop a Blight!”

  “The Grey Wardens are all dead! They died in that field! If they were going to stop a Blight for us, they might have bloody well done it at Ostagar!”

  “Might I say, Your Grace,” Howe chimed in, “that the possibility of this being a true Blight is rather slim. None, I’ve heard, have told of any Archdemon at Ostagar.”

   Anora noted that Howe spoke the word _Archdemon_ as if he were referring to a street urchin.

  “What is your answer, Anora?” her father demanded.

  A strange thought passed through her head. One that reminded her that the Maker’s bride was a virtuous woman, burned alive at the stake because of another’s treachery and deceit. Would the Maker, if He existed at all, deny her a place at His side for lying today? Was that where Cailan was—the Golden City? Her rational mind told her that Cailan was nowhere, that Cailan was dead and gone and so would she be too if the Court thought her and her father traitors to the Crown. But perhaps she hoped for…something. It would be nice, she supposed, if…if he were somewhere. 

  “Do…do what you think is best,” she approved. Her father gave a nod of appraisal. Howe barely contained a smile. Ser Cauthrien remained stoic, standing to the side and biding her tongue. If she had any sort of opinion on the matter, she seemed to know it was not her place to show it.

  On the rest of the way to the throne room, the air felt stale and it became increasingly more difficult for her to breathe. She felt her heart pounding in a way it never had before meeting with the Court. She wondered if they would be able to hear it—all those rats who ruled over Arlings and Bannorns and Teyrnirs that were but pieces of her country. They would never know what it was to be Queen. They would never know the pieces of herself she sacrificed daily, slaving for them, just to stand before them now and keep face, like some hollow doll. How had Cailan done it? All those years while she worked tirelessly behind the curtains, he was smiling and waving, roses in his hair and roses on his crest, kissing newborn babes and giving the people their Golden King. They had been the perfect pair. 

  The curtains to the upper balcony of the throne room were opened by the guard and the light came in. She saw them—every blasted one of them, with blood-tinted wine in their cups as they huddled around each other, whispering about _her_ and how she had _murdered_ her own husband. How she stood before them, presumptuously, in her crown that she earned only through marriage and demanded their fealty. 

  They did not bow at the sight of her. She knew they would not. Her legitimacy was what they were here to contest, after all. But she suddenly felt naked, silly and stupid all the same.

  “My Lords and Ladies!” Her father called out. “Thank you for making your journey here in this difficult time for us all.”

  The murmurs already began. She could not bear it.

  “Let us not waste our breath,” he began. “This darkspawn incursion must be dealt with—quickly and efficiently. Should it be allowed to spread, it will not be the concern of only the Southern Bannorn. Ferelden still has a standing army. But my forces, combined with Arl Howe’s, which will arrive in the city within the month, will not suffice. We must rebuild what was lost at Ostagar, and quickly, and we must eradicate these darkspawn before they move north. What soldiers you have to offer are needed effective immediately, and I expect each of you to supply these men with what you can spare!”

  Arl Bryland, of the South Reach, had not attended. His wife, a fair enough woman aside from her pig-like nose, had come in his stead. She spoke.

  “How can you expect us to defend our lands then? The darkspawn may reach Lothering within the week, and South Reach stronghold soon after!”

  Her father placed his hands on the railing and leaned over the crowd. “Do you think your thousand men will defend against the horde? Ten thousand men died at Ostagar! Only an army can save your lands, and only if we stand together!”

  The murmurs heightened.

“There are those,” her father began again, “that would take advantage of our weakened state if we let them! We will not allow it. Whatever we do, we must do _now_ —without hesitation.”

  Bann Loren, a middle-aged man with poorly cut blonde hair, spoke next. “And should we bow to your daughter in the meanwhile? Is she to be Cailan’s heir only because she has failed to produce a son in five years’ time?”

  Anora could only hold her chin up higher.

  “I recognize the political uncertainty that has gripped our nation in these dark times, following King Cailan’s untimely death. Though my daughter is a capable ruler and has earned her respect as your Queen, I would not expect you to so easily adjust to this change in custom. What we need now more than ever is strong military leadership. Until this crisis is averted, I declare myself Queen Anora’s regent.”

  For the first time in her life, Anora found herself as shocked as the rest of the Court, and as furious. Was this her father’s plan all along? To sidestep her authority and rob her of her throne? Did he fancy her like her husband—a child to be coddled; to have the wool pulled over their eyes? 

  “Is that it?” Bann Loren cried out. “Your daughter or military law?”

  The rest of the crowd seemed to share his outrage. 

  “It is temporary!” Loghain assured them. “Until we have the luxury of time again, and this Court can agree on to whom the crown should pass.”

  There was nothing but idle chatter for a long while. The lemmings seemed to be at least somewhat reassured by her father. Anora was not. She struggled to control her breathing and her glare. She did not need to appear as if her father had surprised her, or these people would never respect her again. For what Queen does not foresee treachery from her own blood? This must look planned. This must look as though it were previously agreed upon. 

  Anora forced a tight smile upon her face—but a smile nonetheless. If he wanted to do all the talking, she would bloody let him. She must at least appear as though she still had some semblance of control.

  It was then that Bann Teagan Guerrin stepped out from where he had previously blended into the crowd. He wore a dark green cloak over his simple garments. He still appeared a Lord, but one look at the light wool and brown color palette and you would know he came from the West. He must have been near forty now, but he was still handsome, with reddish-brown hair and a full beard, with the rugged cut of the Hinterlands. His green eyes were warm and kind and met hers first, before her father’s. 

  “Your Lordship, if I might speak.”

  Her father seemed to still for a moment, but nodded at the man. His holdings were merely a small mountain province on the border, and one could scarcely find it upon a map. It had been sacked and liberated and sacked and liberated once more during the war. The man had had little rest in so many years. The bann of Rainesfere would naturally hold very little influence at court, if not for Rowan. Cailan’s mother, the Warrior Queen, had been beautiful, as the songs said. Anora, of course, never met her. She wasted away when Cailan could still have been mistaken for a babe. Her father had fought beside her during the rebellion. All she had caught of Rowan Guerrin were his mutterings.

  “You say we must unite under your banner for our own good—a fair proposal,” Teagan spoke. “But you have yet to address the army lost at Ostagar. Your withdrawal was most…fortuitous.”

  In an instant the crowd was in an uproar. Her father closed his eyes, preparing to speak.

  “Aye, that it was. I will not deny the spontaneity of my actions, and how they must appear to the public. But I will promise you this: with or without my withdrawal, the battle was lost. King Cailan was already lost when the beacon was lit—murdered by men he trusted. Let it be known throughout the land that the Grey Wardens conspired with the Orlesian Empire against the King, and thwarted the battle that day!” The uproar began again. “If any remain, the Crown calls for their execution—effective immediately.”

  If the Bann wished to speak again, he would not have been able to. The shouting of the crowd was deafening. When Anora looked again to her left, her father was already gone, along with the Arl and Ser Cauthrien. All of the sudden, her mind was spinning, and she felt herself become light-headed, as though she might faint. 

  But she was not some painted Orlesian tart. She was a Fereldan noblewoman, raised in the harsh rains of Gwaren, a city and a people which built themselves from the bottom-up. She was Queen of an independent nation—a people that would not be silenced or ignored. She could take the yells and jeers of the Court. She could take the machinations of her father. She would not faint.

  Out of the corner of her eye,  she saw the green-cloaked man pushing through the crowd. Impulsively, she quickly descended the stairs to follow after him. Anora pushed through the bodies of angry nobles and wondered if this was what it felt like to be on the field of battle.

  She grabbed ahold of Teagan’s arm before he made it through the large doorway into the main entry. He turned to face her, surprised at her closeness.

  “Bann Teagan, _please_.” She did not know what she was begging for. She hoped that maybe he did.

  “Your Majesty,” he shook his head, seemingly at a loss for words. “Your father risks civil war. If Eamon were here…”

  “He…” she begins, unsure of how, this time, she could defend him. “He is doing what he thinks is best.”

  Teagan’s eyes now seemed to bore uncomfortably into her own.

  “Did he also do what was best for your husband, Your Majesty?”

  He shook off her arm and exited the palace, leaving her to the wolves.


	13. Bethany II

# Bethany

"And so Andraste said to her followers: ‘You who stand before the gates, you who have followed me into the heart of evil, the fear of death is in your eyes; its hand is upon your throat. Raise your voices to the heavens! Remember: not alone do we stand on the field of battle.’”

  Bethany knelt in her pew in silent prayer as she listened to the Revered Mother’s sermon. She had come to the Chantry that day because she was in need of counsel, and felt she had nowhere else to turn. Also, she had needed to escape from their cabin. After Lothering had received word of the happenings at Ostagar three weeks prior, her mother had done nothing but stare into the lit hearth in silence. Bethany could bear it no longer.

  No Lothering man or woman who left for Ostagar had yet returned. The darkspawn had not yet reached Lothering, but Bethany had already began to feel as though she lived in a ghost town. Families had locked themselves in their homes. Others had packed up what little they had and headed north, in some cases abandoning their farms. But that was simply not an option for some. Many knew bandits camped at the edge of town, harassing refugees traveling in and out.

  She had never been so scared in all her life.

  Bethany had come in hopes of speaking with Sister Leliana, but she was nowhere in sight, which was disappointing. She disliked speaking too long with the Revered Mother. Eighteen years in hiding and still she felt as though every Chantry official could just _tell_ if she lingered too long. But somehow she knew, that even if Sister Leliana somehow discovered her, she wouldn’t turn her in. They had become too good of friends for that. And she was so kind to her. Sometimes she wondered if the Sister believed in the need for the Circle. Bethany wasn’t quite sure if it was possible, given the Chantry’s strict doctrine. But she knew that many of the other Sisters and Brothers didn’t care for Leliana much at all. She kept to herself, mostly, which Bethany would have thought sad if she weren’t guilty of the same thing.

  If the Sister was not in the Chantry, Bethany had a clue of where else she might be. Quietly, without disturbing the prayer, she got up and walked out of the wooden doors at the Chantry’s front.

  It would have been a beautiful day in Lothering, if not for the fear that thickened the air. The autumn winds were not as biting today, though it definitively felt like summer no longer. Bethany wore a long-sleeved cream dress to compensate, and a green woolen shawl over that. Tan leggings peeked out between her brown leather boots and the hem of her dress.

  Lothering’s Chantry maintained a small garden next to the large bay window of its living quarters, in which the members of the cloister were allowed to grow whatever they wished. Many, sensibly enough, grew pumpkins or cucumbers, or strawberries—Bethany’s favorite. Others, who desired something pretty to look at when they woke up each morning, grew hibiscus for their tea, which bloomed nearly year-round. Bethany thought they were pretty, but she preferred daintier flowers. Regardless, everyone who grew in the Chantry garden seemed to make very efficient use of it, so they would never have a season where nothing bloomed for them. Sister Leliana grew roses.

  When they did bloom, which was unfortunately only once each spring, they were very beautiful, and Sister Leliana tended to them marvelously. Sometimes Bethany even helped. But she knew the bushes bothered the rest of the cloister, as they took up so much space. If Leliana knew this, she didn’t seem to pay it much mind. She had two bushes, and in the grand scheme of life, Bethany supposed they weren’t really doing anyone any harm.

  That’s where Bethany found her: with her bushes, as she was like to be, even though it would be months and months before they showed another bloom again.

  Bethany grabbed the shears that hung on the fence behind her, prepared and willing to work if it meant she could speak to the Sister. But as she knelt down beside her in the soil she saw that Leliana’s look was troubled. When Bethany moved to begin pruning, Leliana stayed her hand.

  “They’re dead,” she said simply.

  Bethany looked from her back to the bushes. Sure enough, the leaves were withering—the plant slowly suffocating. She knew death when she saw it.

  “I’m sorry. I know you loved these roses.”

  Leliana sighed. “I’ll only plant new ones. It is the way of life, no?” Though she said it with conviction, Bethany could see that she was upset. Her usually seamless chipper exterior had cracks in it. She gave Bethany a warm smile.

  Leliana was young and pretty, though Bethany thought she might have been closer to Marian’s age than her own. She had orange hair cropped to her shoulders in which she sported a single, tiny braid, a dainty nose, and big, green, doe-shaped eyes. Bethany found the Sister’s accent cute and endearing, but she knew many more close-minded people in the village that did not like the Orlesians so much. Though, Leliana’s affected voice was not as strong as others that had passed through Lothering, and she spoke very good common tongue.

  Bethany found herself unable to respond to her, but offered a smile in return.

  They sat in a comfortable quiet, listening to the soft wind and the rustling of the leaves. Despite the unease in the village, Bethany had to admit that it was calmer in the garden. The world’s troubles didn’t haunt her so much here—but her own thoughts did. She carried her thoughts with her everywhere, after all.

  “How do you stay so pleasant all the time?” Bethany asked eventually. It made her wonder. The threat of death had entrapped their village, and here death had made it to the garden, where it had leaked into the ground and snuck into their very soil, and still the Sister wore her mask of contentment.

  Leliana sighed softly, which was still a pleasant enough sound. “I’m as worried as you are, sweet girl. But I must keep a strong head on my shoulders.”

  Bethany felt her face fall. She didn’t quite know why. Perhaps she didn’t find Leliana’s advice as satisfying as she had hoped. Apparently the Sister had noticed this, and rushed to reassure her.

  “Oh dear! I’m so sorry, how foolish of me, I shouldn’t have said…well, surely I can’t be as scared as you. Look at you, poor girl, you must be worried sick. I’m so sorry, Bethany.”

  “It’s quite alright.” She gave her a small smile.

  “I know it can’t be anything you haven’t heard, but your sister and brother are very capable fighters. I’m sure they made it out, somehow. The Maker works in miraculous ways, you know. You should still keep hope.” She rubbed circles on Bethany’s back with her hand to comfort her, and it helped a little. Tears still threatened to fall, but as for now, they did not.

  “My mother thinks they’re dead.” Bethany admitted, with more venom in her voice than she had intended.

  “Oh, come now. Leandra loves you three so much, you mustn’t speak of her that way.”

  Bethany shook her head vigorously. “No. She thinks they’re dead, because of how we lost Father. Now she thinks we’ve lost them too, and she can’t even look at me. She’s hardly moved in weeks, she’s not eating well, she’s barely sleeping…”

  “Hush, hush now,” Leliana spoke soothingly, embracing her now. “It’s alright. It’ll be alright.”

~~~

  There were slim pickings in the market that day, as Bethany had feared. What food and supplies were for sale had a heavy price. She left that day with a basket of three potatoes, two tomatoes, an ear of corn and a bar of soap, as the meat was too expensive. If Marian and Carver did not return soon, or…or at all, she would have to learn to hunt on her own, or she and Mother would starve within a month’s time.

  It was at the market that she heard the shouting.

  “Allegiants of evil! Hell on your doorstep! They will feast upon our hearts! There is nowhere to run!”

  It was coming from the Chantry courtyard. What few people had been out and about in the market were now gathering, and Bethany found her feet moving a little faster.

  “This evil will cover the world like a plague of locusts!”

  Soft murmuring came from the townsfolk. A child cried in the distance, but was quickly ushered inside his home by his mother. As Bethany turned the corner into the courtyard she saw the source of the chaos: it was a man, and not just any. He wore armor that was made of tattered leather and had the strangest markings on his face. His dark hair was pulled back in many tight braids. The axe on his back was long and double-edged.

  “Keep it to yourself, you old twat! You’re scaring the children!” a different man shouted. The crowd agreed.

  “Better to slit their throats now than let them suffer at darkspawn hands!”

  There were gasps from the village people.

  “You there, in the armor! Why aren’t you doing anything about this?” An older woman shouted at a Templar who stood against a courtyard wall. Bethany wondered this as well.

  “If you want to try and shut him up, be my guest. I’ve got no authority to move him—that’s up to the Arl’s men. Chantry is public property.” The Templar grumbled.

  “The Arl’s men haven’t come here in weeks! We’ve got children in this village!”

  “Look, Mistress, if you want to—”

  Shouting interrupted the Templar before he could finish. The crazed man pointed beyond the crowd. “There! One of their minions is already amongst us! This _woman_ bears their evil stench! Can you not see the vile blackness that fills her?”

  Bethany, as well as the rest, turned their heads and settled their eyes upon a blonde woman in armored robes of blue and silver. She was young and radiant and beautiful, and if the man’s accusations fazed her, you wouldn’t know. So many things about her were foreign and wonderful, from the engravings on her plate that looked like a strange kind of bird, to the brightness of her eyes, to the easy way she moved and smiled, but Bethany’s gaze ultimately could not be torn from the staff on the woman’s back.

  “What’s going on here?” she maneuvered deftly through the crowd to approach the man, hand on the dagger attached to her hip.

  “My Lady, I would advise you to step back. This man is armed.” The Templar addressed her. Bethany was floored by their interaction.

  “So am I.”

  “I beg of you, do not start a row,” he requested. She only smiled sweetly in response and turned her attention to the screaming man.

  “You are scaring these people. Why?”

  “I watched the black horde descend on my people! I will not be silenced!”

  Bethany felt an armored hand move her gently aside, and saw it was a man, in armor the same style and color as the woman’s robes. He had tied three horses to a fencepost that Bethany realized he must have bought from the stable master, and pushed through the crowd to reach the woman.

  “I came as fast as I heard the shouting—what’s happened?” he demanded.

  “Lo! Another!” came the shouting once more. “Open your eyes! These minions are but the first of those who will destroy us!”

  She saw the armored man—the handsome one—tense, but the woman placed a hand on his arm as if to tell him to stand down.

  “You said ‘ _your people’_. Are you Chasind?”

  “Y-yes! South of the Mire! The darkness it…it swallowed us whole…”

  “You poor man, what happened to you?”

  He shut his eyes tight in sudden sadness. “My family. My clan. Those creatures butchered them all! Some of us fled here, and other clans farther north still, but it doesn’t matter. We cannot escape the darkspawn!”

  “They _can_ be defeated, good man. Keep faith.” The handsome man attempted to reassure him.

  “No!” he shouted again, half-sobbing. “I have seen them! You cannot run! You cannot fight!

  “Shouting and scaring these people won’t save you, or them. Would your family or your clan, if they could see you now, want you to act like this? Doing nothing with yourself besides causing terror?” The woman said.

  “I…I…My ancestors…I’ve shamed them.” The man spoke, wracked with tears.

  The kind woman placed a hand on his arm, as she had to the other man not moments before.

  “Not yet. You can still do right by them. Help protect your people and the ones in this village from the same fate.” She raised her voice a bit now, making sure everyone gathered could hear. “Build barriers and defenses! Give the darkspawn a fight! Tell them Lothering will not fall so easily!”

  “That’s easy for you to say!” yelled back a man from the village that Bethany did not like very much. “We’re not fighters! Half of our men have left already, and those among us who could fight died at Ostagar!”

  Bethany felt herself frown. These people were so helpless. Just as she was. She wished Carver were here. He would hold her and reassure her and tell her it was going to be alright, just like Sister Leliana had. She even wished Marian were here. If Marian were here, the village could stand a chance. Every man and woman who could hold a weapon would fight. Marian would make sure of it.

  “You can be,” the handsome man replied. “If you know the sharp end of a stick from the dull end, you can protect your farm and your own. The darkspawn aren’t smart like a man, but they go down just as easy as one. They’ll underestimate you, and that works to your advantage.”

  “And…and if we do that,” a woman started, “you think we can survive the onslaught?”

  “I think it’s very possible,” the man replied. “I won’t lie to you about your odds, but if this village means something to you—anything at all, then you need to defend it with all you’ve got.”

  After that, the townspeople dispersed, and most seemed to leave a bit more enthused than when they had gathered. Bethany saw the man who was once shouting turn to the pretty woman, and smile sadly.

  “Thank you, kind woman. My…my wife. She is with the Gods now, but, her hair…her hair was like yours.”

~~~

  On Bethany’s path home she passed by the stocks and cages. It was unavoidable, or else, especially today, she would have taken another route. There was a man in one of the cages that she hated to gaze upon. Sister Leliana had told her that he was a Qunari, and that that was why he was so large and muscular, for he towered above all of the Templars. Bethany had asked her why it was, then, that he did not have any horns, but Leliana did not seem to have an answer to that.

  The Revered Mother had called all the adults of the village to a meeting in the Chantry about a week ago, when Bethany had first noticed him in that cage. She had said that he had been discovered at a small farm that housed a family of five, covered in blood. He had approached the Arl’s men, who had happened to be patrolling near the farm, and had asked to be taken into custody. He had admitted, of his own accord, to killing every last person inside that farm. Even the children.

  Being that the farm was not so very far away from Lothering, the Arl’s men brought him here, for him to face the Chantry’s justice. Bethany did not understand why the Chantry should have anything to do with it, but she felt it had something to do with the fact that he was a Qunari. As of this moment, it seemed the Revered Mother still had not decided what to do with him. Either that, or she simply assumed he would die with the rest of them when the darkspawn came. Bethany could understand not wanting to go to the trouble of executing a man when he would die within the week anyway.

  He was sitting cross-legged in his cage when Bethany passed him. He did not look at her. His eyes weren’t even open. And he was so, so still. She felt a chill run down her spine, thinking about that family and each one of their deaths. Not quick, not easy—certainly not painless. No means to defend themselves. They had not begged a fight of him. They were not soldiers. They were farmers, and their deaths were gruesome and horrible and for _nothing_.

  Bethany hurried home after that.

  There, she found what she had come to expect in her stagnant, silent mother and lit hearth. She looked sadly at the sight as she began to chop a meagre portion of vegetables for what she hoped would amount to a small salad. The food was not enough. Her mother was weak already, and Bethany had begun to feel the effects of the food shortage on her body as well. If she had the luxury of time, Bethany would fall to the ground and cry. But she didn’t even have that. She didn’t get to be sad. Marian didn’t cry when things had gotten tough, when she hunted for days and had nothing to show for it. She may have wanted to, of course. Perhaps that was why she got into her moods so often. But she never cried. And now, Bethany had to provide for…for those of them that remained. It was what they were all counting on her for. Marian and Carver…and Father.

  She piled Mother’s helping of vegetables into a small wooden bowl, and laid it next to a fork on a small table by her mother’s chair. If she looked at her, Bethany might cry, so she resisted that. Perhaps she would try to talk to her in the morning, when her thoughts had been slept on and she had calmed down. But now was not the time. She would eat her food outside.

  Bethany brought her bowl to Carver’s favorite tree stump and sat down. The sun was threatening to set, and perhaps, if she didn’t think about them, the darkspawn didn’t have to exist at all. The day was so beautiful that she thought she could believe that, if only for a moment. And so she did.

  The Satinalia festival would begin in a few weeks. Bethany had started on her dress a few months back. She had a beautiful vision for it: cream with tiny orange flowers embroidered on the collar. Unfortunately for her, she had never been very gifted in sewing or embroidery—that was Mother’s talent. Mother loved to sew, Bethany loved to sing, garden, and help Leliana instruct the village children, and Marian loved to throw knives. She supposed it was not so strange. Every woman needed her hobby, and Marian was rather good at hers.

  It could have been the food shortage talking, but with each passing day Bethany seemed to understand her sister more, in ways she never had when she was home. It was the most bizarre thing. For instance, Bethany could never understand for the life of her why Marian didn’t want to stay home and take care of Mother—to be there for her after Father died. She loved their mother, and she knew Marian did too, even though they were often cross with each other. Now, Bethany couldn’t seem to get far enough away from their cabin; from Mother. She ought to have been ashamed, but she wasn’t. That was something she had confessed to the Maker that morning. She hoped He understood where she was coming from. 

  Sounds of a commotion in the village shook Bethany out of her happy reverie. At first, she passed them off, because she recognized they were coming from the tavern. Dane’s Refuge, Danal called it, named after the hero of legend that killed all those werewolves. They had all thought Danal was crazy, when he had first showed up here. But as it turned out, he believed every town needed an inn and tavern, and he was right. Traders and merchants took up most of his rooms, wanting to get from Denerim to Redcliffe and vice-versa easily enough without having to pay more at an inn near the South Reach stronghold. And the men in the village, and Marian, seemed to appreciate the constant flow of booze. Carver didn’t drink. He said it dulled the senses and “made men stupid”. Marian proceeded to tell him that he “ought to pull the tree branch out of his arse”. She told him that often, and usually unprompted.

  But it was the three men that exited the tavern that drew her interest. They were heavily armored—armor that was too expensive for them to be from the village, or South Reach even, but Bethany couldn’t see any colors or banners that she recognized. They looked freshly battered and bloody and they all seemed to stumble or limp as they walked. Now that the noise had died down, she was certain there had been a brawl. Bethany couldn’t understand why anyone would think that now was a good time to start trouble, with things as they were.

  They were leaving now, anyway. The men seemed in quite a hurry to saddle their horses and ride on. The other horses at the tavern Bethany recognized as belonging to that man and woman from the courtyard.

  It was none of her business. Lothering just didn’t see many strangers. Traders on the Imperial Highway from the south were clearly in low demand, and traders on the West Road were all but familiar faces, now. But, Bethany supposed, a lot of things would be changing with the war.

  Her feet found their way to her father’s grave on a small hill next to their home. She hadn’t even been thinking about him much recently—not really. She had been so preoccupied with everything else. But she found herself staring intently at the small pile of stones nonetheless. Bethany kneeled and placed her hand flat on the raised ground. She looked at the bare grave and found herself wishing she had thought to pick fresh flowers.

  The more the thought sat with her, the more she realized that it made her sad. Tears had fallen before she could think to fight them. They traveled too rapidly down her cheeks and mixed with the wetness from her nose. Soon Bethany could force her mouth shut no longer, and it too betrayed her with whimpers.

~~~

  Sleep would not take her that night. Once she woke the first time, she could hear the cicadas, the rustling trees and the distant wolves and it just didn’t matter after that. On the third time she opened her eyes, she officially gave up. It was a good thing, too, because the first sight she was welcomed to was Sister Leliana’s shears peeking from her dress pocket.

  Bethany cursed under her breath and threw the sheets back. On one hand, she now had to throw on her blue overcoat and take a long walk in the dead of night when the weather was at its coldest. On the other, it gave her something productive to do, seeing as she clearly was not going to sleep.

  It appeared as if the people in the village had taken that woman’s advice. Bags of sand, rice, bricks, or whatever it seemed they could scrounge up formed a sort of sad-looking wall around part of the town, though it barely stretched to the Hawkes’ cabin. Some newly sharpened spears and swords had been laid out. Perhaps some things that looked like traps. It was the spirit that might make the difference, Bethany supposed.

  By the moon Bethany could tell that it was, in fact, morning, though only just. Perhaps she had gotten more rest than she gave herself credit for. The early morning was as clear as the day before had been.

  It was the clearness of the air that allowed her to see from so far away that the Qunari’s cage was now open and empty.

  She felt her feet become glued to the ground beneath her.

  Surely, the Revered Mother had moved him. He had not broken out of the cage, he had not broken out of the cage, _he had not broken out of the cage._ She could turn back, she thought, but it was a longer way home than it was to the Chantry. And if she got to the Chantry, she could ask Sister Leliana about him, and she would _know_ , one way or another. If she went home, she would be up all night with no sleep and no better way to defend herself than before she left.

  Swallowing the lump in her throat, she continued on with careful measure. All the horses at the tavern were gone. The man and woman—the _heavily armed_ man and woman—had left. The village’s only defense against a rampaging Qunari were now the Templars. Lovely.

  At the Chantry, Bethany cut through the garden and opened the door to the living quarters as quietly and as quickly as possible.

  She did not have to look for her friend long. The redhead was standing at the foot of her bunk in red leather and silver plate armor Bethany had _never_ seen the likes of,  and she was…packing?

  Leliana’s eyes met hers at the creak of the floorboard under her boot.

  “Bethany!” she whispered. “What are you doing here? Do you know what time it is?”

  “I came to give you these,” Bethany responded, pulling the shears from her pocket and handing them over. Leliana’s eyes widened, before she smiled and shook her head.

  “Oh, you’re precious,” she said, before her smile weakened and her brow relaxed. “No. Keep them. I’ll need you to tend to the bushes while I’m gone, after all.”

  The hand that held the shears went limp, but she was careful not to drop them. Bethany felt her face and heart drop instead.

  “Wh-what do you mean?”

  Leliana looked at her sadly for a moment, but that was quickly replaced by an intensity that Bethany had never known the Sister to have.

  “It bloomed.”

  Bethany blinked. “What?”

  “One of the dead rose bushes. Yesterday afternoon, when I woke up from a nap, I looked out the window and it had a single bloom. I swear it by the Maker, Bethany. I’ve not lost my mind.” She was shaken. Bethany would have reached a hand out to comfort her if she had not been so confused.

  “I believe you—I…I’ll go out and look.”

  “No. It’s gone.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “It’s gone. Someone must have…taken it, I don’t know, it’s just gone.”

  “O-okay, I just…I don’t see what this has to do with…why are you packing?”

Leliana grabbed her pack in one hand and Bethany by the wrist with the other and began to usher her outside, away from her sleeping Sisters and Brothers. Bethany pulled against her.

 “Wait!”

“ _What_?”

“The Qunari! He’s…he’s gone. The cage is open. I saw it on my way here.”

Leliana furrowed her brow. “I…yes, I know that. It’s alright, Bethany. He’s…changed custody. You don’t have to worry.”

Bethany relaxed at that. When they were safely back in the garden, Leliana turned to her again.

  “I can’t explain it all to you now, because I don’t know how to do that in the time that I have. But I have to leave. Please understand.”

  Bethany must have looked so stupid, standing there in the moonlight trying to process the information so quickly. Something in the back of her mind forced her not to cry. She had done that already. Not again.

“Where are you going?” she heard herself ask.

“Away.”

“Well, I...are you coming back?”

“I…I don’t know,” she answered, then added, “I don’t think so, Bethany.”

“Is it…is it the darkspawn?”

“In a way. I had planned to stand and fight here, Bethany. I know it looks like I’m running away, but it’s…it’s not that. I’m needed someplace else. Somewhere I’ll do more good.”

“Take me with you.”

“ _No_.”

“ _Please_ , I—” she was holding onto Leliana’s wrist now for dear life.

“You don’t want that. You’ll be haunted for the rest of your life for abandoning your mother, or if your family came home and you weren’t there—“

“They’re not coming home! They’re dead!”

“Keep your voice down!” Leliana hissed.

“Everyone knows that!” she insisted, quieter. “They all look at me so sad now, _Maker,_ even you do it!” She hated the words she was saying, even though she meant them.

“I do nothing of the sort. I know you can take care of yourself. You’re strong.”

“Oh, please. You’re just saying that. Just like that woman did today in the courtyard. You know this village won’t be here if you ever come back. You _are_ abandoning us.”

“That’s not true, Bethany.”

“It is.”

“I have to go. I’m so sorry.” She wrenched her wrist away. Bethany knew how pathetic she must look—how she must sound. She didn’t care.

“We’ll all die here! Please!”

Leliana was crushed, but she did not stop. She shook her head and said nothing more before finally walking away. Bethany stared after her, defeated, until her friend was a speck in the distance. That was when she took the shears to the bushes, ripping them up from the ground.

~~~

  Bells woke the village. Bethany knew what they were for.

  The staff she had hidden underneath her bed in the floorboards seemed to burn a hole beneath her, but she made no motion to grab it. Before, magic had been the sword she could never put down. Now that she finally had, she couldn’t bear to feel the weapon in her hands again. If today was her last day, she would rather hold onto her last shred of normalcy. Of humanity. Once she picked up her staff, she forfeited it.

  Instead she sat on the edge of the bed and pondered what her death might be. She doubted very much that darkspawn were in the business of quick and painless. She imagined a death much like the farmers that were butchered by that Qunari, for the crime of providing him shelter, the Revered Mother had said.  Bleeding out seemed a terrible thing. That’s what Father had done. Right before her eyes when she was eight. The Templars had run him down—sliced him up the back and left him for dead like an animal. But she heard that sometimes bleeding out could take days. His death was quick, in comparison.

  Bethany was dumbfounded to see her Mother at her door, leaning weakly against the frame.

  “Bethany…we have…we have to go.”

  She narrowed her eyes in disbelief.

  “Go _where_? Your first time saying a word to me—looking at me in weeks and you’re the one who suddenly wants to protect this family? You want to run now? Be my guest. I’m staying and facing this with some dignity.”

  “ _Bethany.”_

  “Leave me alone!” She pushed herself up onto her feet as she screamed.

  For the first time in ten years, Bethany felt magic surge in her fists. She did not have time to scare herself. The front door to their home was kicked open with a crash, and her sister stormed through.

  “Pack your bloody things! We’re leaving, now!”

  She dashed into her room and came out again with more swords and daggers to strap onto herself than she already had. That’s when Carver limped in through the door after her. Bethany’s eyes darted to the makeshift cast on his leg in concern, then to his face—a face she did not recognize now, for it was cold and distant and hard and it had _never_ been so before.

  Bethany felt her heart pound fast, and faster, and faster still. It was the only thing she could think now. _Maker_ , she could not recognize her own brother’s face.


	14. Marian I

# Marian

_Breathe._

She was no use to them dead.

_Breathe. Breathe, damn you!_

They needed a plan, and a damn good one at that. _Gwaren_ , she had thought. They would out-maneuver the darkspawn and head south to the port of Gwaren. From there they could set sail to…to…

She swiped violently with her right-handed sword and dislodged the scalp of a Hurlock.

            _Fuck! Think!_

            “Stop! Stop, we need to stop!” Bethany cried out from the back of the line they had formed. Carver, in his state, wanted to take her place, but Bethany wouldn’t hear it. Mother was third in line, and Carver watched Marian’s back. Granted, _that_ wasn’t very efficient, and they moved slower because of it, but Marian tried to compensate with the route they took.

            Reluctantly, Marian slowed and turned, out of breath. “We can’t; not yet. Not until we can’t see the Highway.”

            “Where are we going? South? Are you mad?”

            “Only a little,” she replied. It was not a jest. “Gwaren.”

            “And then where?”

            “Would you like to stand around and play twenty questions while we wait for the darkspawn to kill us all, or would you like to go?”

“Marian’s right,” Carver agreed coolly, settling a screaming match before it began. “We’ll sort it when we get there.”

            For once in her life, Marian was grateful for Carver’s horrible case of level-headedness. Bethany grumbled incoherently but she fell back in line quick enough. Mother was weak and had to lean on Bethany for support every now and then. Marian told the voice in the back of her head that said they would not make it a day outside the village exactly where it could shove it.

            The landscape outside of the village was traditionally Ferelden, meaning dry, dirt hills as far as the eye could see, with faint yellow-green patches that hardly passed for grass. The path she led them down ran adjacent to the Imperial Highway, and they would walk in its shadow for at least five miles until the path veered off and took them through the Brecilian Forest. It was near the route she and Carver had taken north. Either the darkspawn had taken the efficient Highway or the less efficient but more covert trail beneath it, and regardless, their goal had been to avoid both.

            When they had returned after weeks of delay with Carver’s leg the way it was, her heart had dropped at the sight of the approaching horde—smoke billowing beyond the brown Southron Hills. The bells of Lothering still rang in her ears. Families stumbled over each other to pack their things and leave the village. Others thought they could stand and fight. None of them had looked back to see what was likely the razing of the village. All of those people, came a distant thought, were dead. The men she had shared drinks with in the tavern, the young blonde farmhand she had fucked in the hay, the baker that sold them bread. Those people and all she could remember of them, torn to pieces like the men and women that had been butchered before her at Ostagar. Her family was one of the lucky ones.

She had spent the past few weeks feeling as if she were having some sort of out-of-body experience, where her body was only a placeholder for her brain, doing exactly what she had to do to keep her brother alive though not consciously observing it. As she had stampeded through the village to get to her family, the same feeling had only intensified. She still felt that now. But it was as if some maddening thing was clouding her thoughts. Was it the likelihood of their fate? The fear in Bethany’s eyes? Or Carver and that haunting stare he’d had for weeks? She couldn’t say.

            “Stay close!” Marian threw over her right shoulder. “Bethany, are you alright back there?”

            “I should be, short of any surprises.”

            Her sister, for the first time since Father was killed, held a staff between her dainty fingers, wielding it against the darkspawn. She had not seen her kill one yet, but she would need to before the day was up. Marian was sure Bethany felt strangely by her stance, but the look of a weapon in her hands suited her. Father would have been proud to see Bethany defending her own.

            As they neared a small rise Marian could already hear the noises from the other side. It was a small crowd of darkspawn that had clearly been distracted from the horde. They were attracted by something, and sure enough she heard the sounds of a battle and the grunts of a woman. Bethany moved to stand from their hiding spot under the rise.

            “ _What are you doing_?” Marian hissed.

            “She’s in trouble! We have to help her!” Bethany responded in kind.

            Marian glared at her. Bethany only matched her fury.

            “She’ll _die_.” Bethany reiterated. Marian did not budge. She thought Bethany’s observation a rather obvious one, but she didn’t say so. What her sister couldn’t understand was that this woman was no different from all those people back in the village. But the Hawkes had turned their backs on them. This woman was here, and would die before Bethany’s eyes. Bethany was still young. She would feel guilt for this.

            Just when she thought her sister might see reason and relent, she stood, and climbed the rise.

            Marian shouted her sister’s name, and her mother shouted too, and Carver tensed and moved to grab his weapon though he knew very well it was no good, that he would not stand in time, and all Marian could do was follow her up.

            There were maybe five darkspawn that surrounded the woman, all of them as tall as a man, and they engulfed her in a way that Marian was sure she must be dead. It was the occasional glint of silver metal that she could see through the spawn, as well as the small mass of darkspawn corpses at her feet, that told her she was not. She was weakening, though, and so were her hits.

            Their snarls scared her sister, who stood to her right, into a petrified state. Marian shook her head, preparing to lurch forward and fight, when Bethany shouted.

            “Hey! Over here!”

            “ _Bethany—“_

Before Marian could argue, some darkspawn had already followed the sound. They drew closer to her sister and panic overtook her. She unsheathed a knife from where it rested on her thigh and threw it at the closest charging darkspawn. It lodged itself in its forehead, and sent it to the ground, its bony jaws wide open in almost a grin. Though, almost immediately after, a blast struck at the feet of the other three charging darkspawn, erupting them into blue flames as they shrieked and collapsed, what little flesh remained to them peeling from their bones as they died.

            The final darkspawn, which had not fallen for Bethany’s distraction, was quickly dealt with as the woman drove her sword through its stomach with a guttural yell.

            The attack, though unexpected, came from her sister, who had not even removed the staff from her back. She stood looking at her hands as Marian went to gather her knife. The hilt burned at the touch, and Marian cursed under her breath as she struggled to grasp it.

            “I was trying to lure them,” Bethany directed the jab at her.

            “Yes, well, warn me next time.” She responded, successfully dislodging the knife using a spare bandage from her pack.

            “I thought it was obvious.”

            Marian ignored her. The whimpers of the woman they had saved eventually reached their ears, and they both directed their eyes to where she lay on the ground, next to a man that she had not noticed. He was armored in— _shit._

            “They will not have you,” the woman asserted to him, grabbing his face, which looked to Marian drained and tired, between her strong, calloused hands. “ _They will not have you_ ,” she said again, lower this time. “Not while I breathe.”

            The man placed a hand on top of hers. She smiled, and her eyes had a watery shine to them. Marian was one step away from awkwardly clearing her throat when the woman, turned to face them.

            “Wesley, can you stand?” she asked. “These people, they—”

            “Apostate. Keep your distance.” Wesley’s eyes bore into her sister’s. He was weak, that much was clear, but not so weak that he could not uphold the sigil on his armor. A flaming sword. He found it in him to stand.

            “Well, the Maker has a sense of humor. Darkspawn and now a Templar.” Her sister spat bitterly, not intended for anyone else to hear, clearly. Marian thought Bethany might have been shaking in fear, but her sister surprised her again that day. Bethany spoke to him directly now. “Have you abandoned Lothering so quickly?”

            “Not so quickly that I can’t do my duty. The darkspawn are clear in their intent, at least,” he spat. “A mage is always an unknown. The Order dictates—”

            “Wesley.” The woman warned. He would not stand down.

            “The Order dictates…” He spoke this time with slightly less conviction, but he took a step forward, and so did Marian, shielding him from crossing to her sister. She placed her hands on the two daggers at her hips and stared him down unflinchingly. Marian was only an inch or so short of him, but she no doubt looked infinitely more intimidating. His hand hovered over the hilt of his sword. The prick of a needle could have released the tension in the air, the sound of the breeze the only thing between utter silence.

            A careful hand was placed on the Templar’s arm.

            “Dear, they saved us,” the woman almost whispered. “The Maker understands.”

            His shoulders, which had been stiff, released their tension at the woman’s reasoning. “Of course.” He stepped back from Marian, and his hand dropped to his side.

            “I am Aveline Vallen. This is my husband, Ser Wesley. We can hate each other when we’re safe from the horde.” The woman had bright red hair pulled from her face in a fashion much like Marian’s own black tresses. Aveline wore a braided red leather band around her forehead which was in great contrast to her pale, freckled skin. She wore leather armor over a cotton blouse, and was as bruised and beaten as her husband, with whom she was of a height, and even of a build. Marian took great notice of the woman’s toned muscles and the way they danced as she gripped the blade at her side. Her man though, had dark hair, a clean-shaven face, and features that were sharp and pointed and hard-looking. He looked like a bloody Templar.

            “A strange time to be hunting apostates.” Marian directed back at the man. “I saw his fellows leaving north with the Chantry priests.”

            “ _What_?” Bethany exclaimed. “They…they left? After all of…Well. I can hardly be surprised.”

            “I was traveling to Denerim on business,” Wesley said coolly, in response to Bethany’s insinuation. “But I had to turn south when…when I heard of Ostagar.”

            “Bad luck and poor judgement brought us together here before the attack.” Aveline directed _judgement_ at her husband like it was a dirty word.

            “Well, if the nice Templar has decided to postpone his hunt for illegal mages, then let’s not dwell upon it, shall we?” Bethany requested.

            “Wise girl. If we are to stick together, we’ll need to move past this squabbling.” Aveline nodded in her sister’s direction. Marian only wished her approval had been more condescending, just so she would have something to be angry about.

            At that time, Carver and Mother had made their way from beyond the rise to join them. Carver was tense at the sight of Wesley, but had clearly overheard enough not to raise hostilities again.

            “You’re quick to offer your allegiance,” Marian noted. “You don’t know us, we don’t know you.”

            “Another blade between us and the darkspawn? Marian, we should take what we can get.” Carver advised.

            “As long as the horde _is_ their first concern.” Bethany added.

            “My duty is clear,” Wesley insisted. “But it can stand for another day, if the Maker grants us that opportunity.”

            Bethany made a noise of disgust from the back of her throat, signaling her exit from the conversation.

            “You saved us when you didn’t have to. That makes you decent enough people. My husband will be _fine_. We all will.” Aveline assured. “For now, we move with you. North is cut off—we barely escaped the main body of the horde.”

            “We saw. I scouted North from a high hill when we were still on the outskirts of the village. The darkspawn are more clever than we’d thought,” said Marian. “We go south. To Gwaren.”

            There were no objections. They continued on together after that, in silence along the path, until Mother broke it. Though she had fallen into a stupor these past few months, for Marian’s whole life, her Mother had never been one to let an uncomfortable silence go unchecked. It was…reassuring. As if she were reverting to normal.

            “For a while,” Mother spoke, “for a while I thought we were the only ones to escape those creatures. It is reassuring to see a friendly face.”

            Something in Carver seemed to revert to another place, another time. Back in the frozen woods, perhaps, sitting around a makeshift campfire as she bandaged his leg, slit up the calf. It was difficult to tell, then, if the leg would have to go. Medicine was never her strongest practice. She didn’t know if she could amputate it. She didn’t know if he would die. The cold might have taken him just the same. Or maybe his mind took him farther back than that. “You didn’t see Ostagar, Mother,” came a voice that might have been his. “I would not be reassured just yet,”

            “You were at Ostagar?” Aveline asked, rather dumbly. Marian felt as if she had been glaring at these people for their entire exchange. “Yes, I see that now. Third company, under Captain Varrell.”

            “Then you saw how the entire army was defeated.”

            “We fell to betrayal,” she asserted with conviction. “not the darkspawn.”

            “Maybe,” was his only reply.

            Marian fell in line with Wesley, who was towards the back of their formation. His wife headed it, with Bethany, Carver and her mother close behind. She waited until the man squirmed at the discomfort of her proximity to speak.

            “I’m watching you, Templar. If I don’t like what I see, you’ll wish I had left you with those darkspawn.”

            “I would anticipate no less.” He was scared. She heard it in the quiver of his voice and, under different circumstances that were far less bleak, she wondered if she might have smiled at the thought.

* * *

 

             Confrontation did not come until they were all tired, and until one of them was very near death.

            Marian had screamed at Aveline when Wesley had collapsed of exhaustion, his eyes sunken into his skull and the veins on his forehead pronounced and grey. She knew what this was. She and Carver, after having emerged from their hidden camp in the Wilds, had come across a man dying of it on the outskirts of Ostagar, a few days after the battle. He had crawled to the spot, away from the slaughter on the field and out of sight of the horde, and had laid there under a leafless tree to die. After the darkspawn had come and gone, snow had begun to fall, and a light blanket of it dusted the ground. He was shivering under a military-issued blanket. He asked for water. They had none.

            He had gotten some of their blood in an open wound, he said. It hadn’t been very much. He thought he had cleaned the wound, and then he had stitched it up, but not before he realized that the wound was not what would kill him. If the Wardens knew of this sickness, he had not been warned, and neither Marian nor Carver could recall hearing of it before then, except in old verses from the Chant of Light. The man looked so nearly like one of them. Even the horror on the battlefield did not match his gruesome face. Marian thought he might ask her to kill him, but he did not. He asked them both to leave, so he might die in peace.

            “He has the Taint!” Marian yelled at the woman, supporting Wesley by one arm as Aveline held him by the other. “He has the fucking Taint and you _didn’t say anything_?”

            “What does it matter?” Aveline shot back. “He’s my husband, it’s none of your concern.” They found themselves on another rise, a large open space where they could pause and catch their breath. They laid Wesley down on the ground, leaning against a rock.

            “It will be when he’s injured and his blood finds its way onto _my family_.”

            “That’s…that’s not how it works.”

            “Are you sure about that?”

            “I…I didn’t think…”

            “Marian, what’s done is done. Can we keep moving?” Carver encouraged.

            She shook her head. “Not with him. He stays.”

            “No!” Aveline shouted.

            “He’s dying, Aveline! Whether his disease spreads or not, he’ll get us killed by slowing us down.” Marian retorted.

            “Marian! We _need_ to go, this is a bad spot!” Carver’s voice seemed so distant to her now.

            “Your brother is injured! I don’t see us leaving him behind to die, you bloody hypocrite!”

            “My brother has a sword in his hand and can _walk_. Your husband is fucking unconscious!”

            “You bitch!”

            “MARIAN!”

            She and Aveline turned and at once heard the snarling. It came from all around them—every edge of the dirt hill they had found themselves on. Carver had his sword drawn, and Bethany gripped her staff like a vice to where her knuckles were white, and she and Aveline looked at each other and drew their weapons as well.

The beasts crawled over one another, toppling and pushing just to get to the top of the rise. They spilled over the edge like a tidal wave, stumbling to stand again on two feet. There must have been thirty of them.

            “Shit!” Marian cursed, looking frantically for an out.

            “Mother, stay back! Stay with Wesley!” Carver insisted. Their mother did not protest.

            “Bethany, listen to me, we need you, do you understand?” Marian tried to reach her sister. Bethany nodded. With her staff in two hands, she spun it and slammed it down on the ground, releasing a force of energy strong enough to shake the earth, toppling many of the creatures. The ones near to them Marian and Carver took care of, sliding swords into the base of their skulls. Aveline worked on shielding them from any darkspawn who decided to charge.

            Bethany began to shoot blasts of energy onto the ground as she had done before, blowing away small groups of darkspawn while Marian, Carver and Aveline moved in on the rest.

            It was working. They were down to a handful of the creatures, and then none at all, and they had a moment to catch their breath. Aveline did a round to make sure they all were truly dead. Carver, with a smile on his face the likes of which Marian had not seen on him in so long, hobbled over to her and placed a firm hand on her shoulder. Her mouth, hanging open from her laboured breaths, curved into a smile as well.

            The ground shook.

            “Bethany, I don’t see any more, it’s all right.” Marian called over to her.

The look on her sister’s face as she shook her head slowly to the left and right made her stomach feel so hollow.

            The smiles fell from them all as the ground continued to shake. Carver used her shoulder for balance. Bethany backed away from the edge quickly and in abject horror. Marian followed her eyes to the horns that now charged at them, and the towering body beneath it. The large beast was salivating, and it roared in a way that was not unlike the roar she had heard all those nights ago, as she stood back from a beast, larger than a pine tree, and watched him effortlessly snap the King’s body in two.

            Men had followed after it in the interest of revenge, losing their nerve in the heat of battle as they saw their Golden King fall before them, and they had died too. She had not. She found Carver, not far from her, and she had protected him with her life until it was clear the battle was lost, that no one was coming. The signal fire burned hopeful upon the Tower of Ishal for every man and woman on that field to see, but the minutes passed them by and still the horns of war did not come. Only the silence, and so, so much bloodshed. She had grabbed Carver and ran into the trees, but not before one of the wretched beasts had caught up to them, and had injured Carver up the leg. He had killed it, removing its head with a clean blow, but the face of her brother even before he had lowered his weapon was one of a man who was ready to die. He was eighteen, and in his eyes she had seen that he was ready to go that night. He had begged her to leave him, to go home and watch over Bethany and Mother and tell them he loved them. She wouldn’t grant him that. She had dragged his sorry arse, for all the weeks it took them, back to Lothering.

            She and Carver had shared more memories as scrappy children, running through Lothering’s fields and trees with bruised knees and untarnished prides. Fewer now that they were older. Had she not reluctantly agreed to enlist in the King’s Army with him perhaps she might not have understood what was in his eyes now.

            The grip of his hand was released from her shoulder. Somehow, she knew—she had known of the moments that would follow since that first night in the Wilds when she thought his fever or the cold might take him instead, but he would not let them. “Bethany needs you,” she had told him, the sting of the cold blinding her vision. “So does Mother, so you can’t. You _can_ ’ _t fucking go_. _I_ need you.” He had nodded, as it was all he could do, shaking under both of their blankets and the bark that she could find him.

            And he hadn’t. He had not left her.

            “Go,” was what he told her now, though. _Go._

            She heard the crunch of the dirt under his boots as he turned away from her, and each step afterwards as they grew faster and faster and faster, yet. A yell of panic rang out. It could have been anyone’s. It was not until the snap that the true screams came—the ones she would remember. Mother’s, then Bethany’s, and Aveline’s did not come. Marian’s mouth made the motions but could not give them sound. But Mother’s and Bethany’s were so violent, so sudden, that Marian’s eyes, in their haze, darted to them to confirm they had not been the victim instead.

            The lack of air Marian felt coursing through her lungs made her foolishly consider if it had been her, not him. Not him. She had never remained so still in her whole life and this paralysis must be what death felt like. She flexed her hand to test her theory and was disappointed. It functioned just like it always had. It served a purpose, but was stuck in a state of misuse, as was her foot. She moved that too, and placed it back down again though she could not hear the sound it made. Or perhaps the screams drowned it out. The ogre was busy. That was what an old, familiar part of her mind told her. It had been locked away ten years ago with a key that she hid in the dark. The ogre was busy. She could make her way around it, to Bethany and Mother. The ogre was busy.

            Her foot stepped on a patch of mud that had been mixed with blood, and, not being able to repress it, vomit lurched from the pit of her stomach and out onto the ground. She steeled herself fast, as was her custom, and trudged on.

            She reached her mother first, who was sprawled on the ground, fingers clawing into the dirt like it was the only thing that still held her to this earth.

            “We have,” Marian swallowed, “to go.”

            Her voice was a rasped whisper, and the order came like a painful secret.

            “Now.” Marian tried to be forceful. She pulled her mother up by an arm and she was met with violent resistance. If Mother would not go then she would go to Bethany.

            “Bethany, we have to run, we have to run as fast as we can, please, it’s what he—“

            Bethany nodded profusely, her face still crumpled and wet but she followed her sister. Aveline appeared beside them and hauled Wesley up and over her shoulder. She and Bethany grabbed their mother by her two arms, pulling her up now with all their might. She screamed and fought them and Marian could see the ogre stir, as if threatening to look over his shoulder, but he did not yet divert his attention to them.

            Soon, Mother went limp, and her arms were slung over she and her sister’s shoulders as they ran. The three of them, though burdened, ran as fast as they could. She and Aveline did not look back. Bethany did. She must have thought her sister would not notice, but Marian had and she tried to forget it. She tried so, so hard to forget it.

* * *

 

            Marian let the screaming come. The heat of her mother’s face was so close to her own, closer than she could remember allowing, but she did not stop the screams. She stared at the veins. She watched them as they danced about her mother’s skin, filled with blood.

            “You! You killed him! _You_ brought us this way, trying to be clever, trying to out-wit those…those _things_! Your foolish pride got him killed! You could have stopped him—you were _right there_! Could have reached out and grabbed him before he…before he…” the tears had been there since the start but the sobs were coming now and Leandra Hawke fought, weakly, to hold them back. “It was you! It’s always _you!_ You stupid, stupid girl!”

            “Stop it!” Bethany screamed back, her voice cracking. Mother had collapsed to the ground again, at Marian’s feet.

            “My little boy…my little boy…”

            “It wasn’t Marian’s fault! None of this is Marian’s fault, you selfish, selfish woman! You’re a monster!” Bethany’s hastily repressed sobs betrayed her voice.

            “Carver…Maker, not my son…”

            “I hate you!”

            “ _Enough!_ ” Aveline snapped.

            Marian walked away now, kicking the dirt from under her heels lazily. The dirt path was above them—it protruded from a hill a bit so that they could hide beneath it in a rock shelter. Marian meandered her way outside, beyond the shallow cave. They were on low-ground now, far below the Imperial Highway but not nearly as far away from it as they ought to be. That made Marian want to cry.

            “He was not my kin, it’s true,” Aveline began. Marian assumed she addressed the lot of them though she was hardly listening. “And I’m sorry for your loss. But we _need_ a plan. I’m sure that’s…I’m sure that’s what the boy would have wanted.”

            There was no response that Marian heard. Only the sound of Bethany drying her tears and stifling her sniffles.

            And then the snarling.

            _No._

            “How…how could they have caught up to us already?” Aveline drew her sword, panic-stricken. “It’s not possible!”

            “No. No, I can’t. Marian, please, I can’t!” Bethany cried, her staff forgotten on the ground. Her hands grasped at her head as she shook it violently back and forth.

            Marian turned over her shoulder, her swords drawn. “Bethany, you must. You have to. Come over here.”

            “I can’t!”

            Their rotting, blackened skulls rose from beyond the top of the rise, some crawling on all fours, some sprinting. Heat flooded through her body and settled in her palms and forehead, and she rushed to calm her unsteady mind. Her knives trembled in her hands and water coalesced in the ducts of her eyes.

            Her sister had completely lost her nerve. She was helpless, sitting under the rock shelter in fetal position, staring at the dust. They would rip her apart first, then swarm over her mother and Wesley. She and Aveline were just far enough away to look on, helpless, like worthless sacks of shit.

            She gripped her knives tight; tight like how she had latched onto Carver’s hand that night and led him through the pines of the Wilds as the needles scratched at her face. The scratches bled later, just like she thought her knuckles might bleed now. From the pit of her, she let loose a primal scream.

            The darkspawn who had begun to climb down the rock paused to look at her, and then looked further up still. If she had been so proud she might have thought her yell to be the one that gave the darkspawn pause, made the tundra vibrate and dust fly into the air. After all, hers had blended seamlessly with the screech that could have been heard for miles and miles, bellowing proudly like a hundred thousand off-tune war trumpets sounding all at once. Marian felt her blood rush at the sound that was not her own.

            A giant horned purple beast with a wingspan to match Lothering’s largest lake rang down from the sky to land on at outcropping of rock high above the shelter. Lifting its beaked head, it roared again. It reminded her, faintly, of the large bird she had glimpsed flying high in the sky the night of the battle. While she bandaged Carver’s leg and his life’s blood had rushed like a river between the creases of her fingers, she had looked up and seen it, even through the dark trees and tears of frustration. It had lifted her spirits much more than that damnable beacon had.

            The dragon swept down from its perch, lighting the darkspawn aflame in one fell swoop. They crumpled to the ground, nothing more than black ash, and blue flame ruthlessly continued to consume what remained. Bethany had gone quiet and had come to stand behind her, close enough to be effectively guarded. Marian could only follow the dragon’s movements, feeling the force of each of its wing flaps in the very fabric of her person.

            The beast came too close and the three of them were forced to sprint out of the way, hugging the wall of the rock shelter. When Marian looked back, though, it was a burst of light she was met with, and a thick fog that had not been there before. It mixed with the dust on the ground and they all squinted and shielded their mouths. Bethany coughed violently into her neck kerchief.

            Dark purple wings and sharp teeth were now nowhere to be found. Instead as the fog cleared, the dark silhouette of a woman appeared before them. In her grasp was a bloodied darkspawn torso, ripped apart by dragon’s fangs. She turned and strutted at a languid pace towards the Hawke family, dragging the corpse on the ground a bit before casually letting it hit the dirt floor.

            Her hair was white, her lips were dark, and her eyes were yellow. A large silver pointed crown framed a face that could have been old. The leather she wore was the same deep purple as the dragon, and hugged her breasts and hips unforgivingly. Her pauldrons were large and black-feathered, and her boots, armored like her talon-like gloves, reached her knees. Her bright hair was fashioned, in part, to look like the horns of the dragon.

            Her smile was the dragon’s tail, curving and snapping into something maliciously, wonderfully powerful.

            “Well, well. What have we here?”

            The woman’s voice was smooth and smoky, wise and dangerous. Marian, though intrigued, had little time or patience to be fascinated with her.

            She heard the falling of a body behind her and Aveline let out a yell.

            “It’s Wesley! He’s…he’s collapsed!” she shouted, running to his side.

            “Is he breathing?” Marian questioned.

            “I....yes. But I don’t know how much longer he can… _Maker…_ ”

            Marian and Bethany alone stood against the woman now. She spoke again, nodding to Wesley on the ground.

            “I see your family has not had an easy time away from home. We used to never get visitors to the Wilds. Now it seems they arrive in hordes.”

            “The Wilds?” Marian inquired. “I don’t understand.”

            “I am here to tell you that south is no longer available to you. That is, if your aim is to outrun the Blight. You are going the wrong direction. I suggest setting your sights elsewhere.”

            “Cheap advice from a dragon.” Marian jabbed. “Where did you learn that trick?”

            The woman chuckled. “Perhaps I _am_ a dragon. If so, count yourself lucky. The smell of burning corpses does nothing for the appetite.” She turned, walking away seemingly, and turning over the charred remains of a corpse with her boot.

            “Wait!’ Bethany cried out. “You can’t just leave us here!”

            The woman turned, a thin brow raised in curiosity. “Can I not? I spotted the lot of you meandering curiously, aimlessly, and I wondered at your purpose. But now my curiosity is sated and you are safe, for the time being. Is that not enough?”

            “You say south isn’t an option. Well, neither is north. We go east or west and risk the horde heading us off.” Marian explained. “We have nowhere to go. Your help would be invaluable to my family. I would—”

            “Kirkwall,” Bethany declared suddenly, as if the thought had only just come to her. Or just resurfaced. “We need to get to Kirkwall, in the Free Marches.”

            “Kirkwall?” the woman asked, amused. “Oh my. But that is quite the voyage you plan. Your King and Country will not miss you, hmm?”

            “Haven’t you heard?” Marian inquired. “Ostagar is fallen. Cailan is dead.”

            “And yet here _you_ are.”

            Marian stilled. The woman only studied her closer.

            “Hurdled into the chaos, you fight, and yet the world still shakes before you. Is it fate or chance? I can never decide.”

            She seemed lost in her own devices, chasing after a thought that seemed to be very physically slipping from her—at a point somewhere in the air above her head, in fact. Marian found herself genuinely unsure whether to back away or press the issue.

            That was soon answered for her. The woman gained ahold of her senses again and turned back to them.

            “It seems fortune smiles on us both today. I may be able to help you yet.”

            “There must be a catch.” Marian stated.

            The woman laughed heartily, near hysterically, at a joke Marian wished she had heard. “Ha! There is always a catch! _Life_ is a catch! I suggest you _catch_ it while you can.”

            Bethany seemed to make a motion to back away in confusion. “Maybe we shouldn’t trust her, Marian. We don’t even know what she is.”

            “I know what she is.” The venom in Aveline’s voice could be heard even from where Marian stood. “The Witch of the Wilds.”

            “Some call me that,” the woman began indifferently. “Also Flemeth, Asha’bellanar, …an old hag who talks too much.” She chuckled. “Does it matter? I offer you this: I will get your group past the horde in exchange for a simple delivery to a place not far out of your way. Would you do this for a Witch of the Wilds?”

            “A _Witch of the Wilds_?” Marian scoffed. “What do you do, steal children in the night?”

            “Bah! As if I had nothing better to do.”

            “You’re…an apostate?” Bethany asked, with an odd tone to her voice.

            “Yes,” Flemeth smiled warmly. “Just like you.”

            “So,” Marian began, “you would go through all that trouble just to have something delivered?”

            “I have…an appointment to keep.” She answered.

            “And how much trouble will this delivery be exactly?”

            “About as much trouble as me saving your lives, not five minutes ago.”

            “Fair point.”

            “Ha! If you knew my Morrigan, you’d know how seldom I hear that. There is a clan of Dalish elves just outside of Kirkwall, hidden up Sundermount. Deliver this amulet to their Keeper: Marethari.” The witch handed her a trinket like any other. Marian was sure she had seen twenty like it at a market stand in South Reach. “Do as she asks with it, and any debt between us is paid in full.”

            “Hawke,” Aveline began. “Wesley…in this state…we’ll never escape the darkspawn without her.”

            Wesley, eye sockets nearly blackened pits now, sweat matting hair to his face and barely able to move a muscle, spoke. “Leave…me behind…if you must.”

            “No!” Aveline said, firm. “I said I would drag you out if I had to, and I meant it.”

            “That reminds me,” Flemeth started. “There is another matter.” Her gaze settled on Wesley as he let out a violent hack. Marian turned to face him as well. Aveline stood, blocking them off.

            “ _No._ ”

            “What has been done to your man is within his blood already.” Flemeth told her, saddened at the sight.

            “You lie!”

            “No…” Wesley was barely audible. “She’s right, Aveline. I can feel it…the corruption, inside me, it’s…screaming…”

            “How…” Aveline could barely get the words off her tongue. “How long before he…”

            “Not long now.” Flemeth responded.

            “And there’s nothing we can do for him?” Marian inquired.

            “Unless he is to become a Grey Warden, no.” Flemeth told her.

            “And they all died at Ostagar.” Bethany closed her eyes.

            “Not all,” was the witch’s answer. “But the last are far beyond your reach.” She stepped away from the scene, and Aveline knew what that meant. She and Marian huddled around Wesley.

            “Bethany, look away if you must.” She told her sister, but the answer was a shake of her head.

            “Wesley, you cannot ask me this.” Aveline almost whispered it, like a sort of prayer.

            “Aveline, listen to me, the corruption is a slow…death…I can’t…” he choked out before resorting to just heavy breathing, which sounded more like wheezing.

            The woman’s green eyes found her steely ones.

            “He’s your husband, Aveline. I’ll do it, if that’s your wish.”

            “No.” She looked away from them both now. She took a moment. “No, it can only be me. But…thank you.”

            A knife slipped from its worn leather sheath on the woman’s hip. Wesley’s last words were something of love, something only Aveline would know and hear and could keep. It was almost sweet. Not like the field of battle, where death was not some drawn out ordeal. There, it was a state of being. A lamp was lit, or it was not. A man had a sword in hand one moment, and he was on the ground the next. Wesley was somewhere in the in-between, where her father had been ten years ago as his family watched the life go from him on the cold ground while he spat out red blood and his final goodbyes. That was the only other time Marian had seen a death like that. It was not like the field of Ostagar. It was not like…not like…

When the tiny blade pierced his skull, Marian did not see a Templar lying dead on the ground, but the man this woman had loved, married, stayed true to. She would give him that gesture, as a parting gift: that she had felt no joy when he left.

            Aveline’s face was hidden from the rest of them, and so Marian stood to give her the space she was sure she needed. Bethany’s eyes, it seemed, had not left the dead man: staring at him so hard Marian thought she threatened to bore holes in his corpse. Everything about her sister had been so strange that day. She could not blame her, but this look was something else. It was new, and sinister, and not her sister. She hoped Aveline did not see it.

            She approached the witch, who stood away from them, looking out at the horizon.

            “There can be no peace.” Flemeth said it into the wind, which proceeded to blow Marian’s dark hair across her face in tatters.

            If she had closed her eyes and imagined wings upon her back, like she and Carver used to do as children standing atop the rolling Southron Hills, she might have felt the chaos in her soul; the chaos and danger that the witch had in each step she took.

But she did not. She did not close her eyes, for there was no time for that now. Numbness masked whatever it was that was in her soul.

It was certainly not peace.

           


	15. Cullen III

# Cullen

War had changed the Tower. Though he was young and “green”, as the older knights would call him, he was a man with two eyes, as any other. In a few weeks’ time, he could see a subtle chaos had begun to bubble beneath the surface. He looked at his brothers and saw, stirring in their eyes, a desperate uncertainty. They scrambled for meaning in confusing times. He understood at a cursory level. But wartime did not change him, or his duty.

Though Greagoir would later loudly express his displeasure at the oversight, word of Ostagar came only with the mages who returned—not with a raven. The stragglers who came trudging through the main gate were all older mages, those who had not been on the front lines. Advisors and healers they were, all tired and hungry and shaken at the death of their King and comrades. The young, starry-eyed hopefuls who had leapt at the chance to leave Kinloch Hold still remained on the field. Cullen did not recognize it as cruel irony—not until his mind betrayed him, and he saw blonde hair and pale blue eyes covered in spots of blood and snow and picked at by birds. He stopped himself before he added firm breasts and a pretty neck. 

What if she were dead? He considered her fair mangled limbs sticking up from dirt and snow, as trite and ordinary as every other body that lay next to it. She was buried beneath the refuse of war. She gave her life for her country, or some other noble platitude, and the Queen would say a few stock words at a drab stone memorial that would be too small to have her name etched in its grooves with the rest of them.  Her grave would be unmarked at the ruins of Ostagar. She had no Mother, no Father, no next of kin, she had told him. He might be one of the few people left alive that cared that she had existed. 

The pang he felt was anger. 

She had deceived him, made a fool of him. His peers snickered behind his back now, he knew that to be true. They always had, except now to them he was not only a fool of the Order but a fool of love: some self-important arse who had lived his life in a contrived fantasy. A man so pathetically smitten to have become a mage’s plaything: a servant of the Fade. They could believe what they liked.

If it was any consolation, no one had any reason to suspect him of playing a part in the raid of the phylactery chamber. Of that crime, he would be free and clear. He had demanded the signature of a senior enchanter who would not connect the rod of fire to her or the events that night, and who was clearly too baffled at the brutishness and gall of the templar to request an explanation. 

  That day, after Duncan had led her away, Cullen had received an earful from the Knight Commander. Greagoir had focused his anger at her, though, not at him. The disgusting words that spewed from the Commander’s mouth had infuriated him. But he said nothing in response. He had been a coward even in that regard.

  He had been so in shock, after all. It had all happened so quickly. But that had been a month ago, and he was a different man. Something about his new “temperament”, Greagoir had said, had impressed him. Cullen now found himself on nighttime patrols and longer shifts. If his work continued, he might be granted leave to see his family. Cullen felt a giddiness—and also a bliss, like he had never known before in his position. He had a place as something of an equal among the older knights. If his peers resented him for it, he didn’t care. Being trusted with responsibility was all Cullen had ever wanted—to have a place within the Order. From the horror and trauma of a month ago, something wonderful had grown. His mind was at peace, and he was allowed easier rest at night. The heat had left her body. There was no heat left for him to dream of.

  It was midnight. He had come to the chantry to pray, as was his custom. When the sun was high, the place had been flooded as of late with men and women praying for husbands and wives, brothers and sisters. After hours, though, there was hardly ever a soul that came to sit and be with the Maker. He had the large room mostly to himself. It smelled of incense, and it was dark and quiet. Though, on nights like this where there was very little moonlight to filter through the glass into a warm orange glow, there was a priest who stayed to light each and every candle. It was a long and seemingly fruitless effort—Cullen was, after all, the only one to see it—but the same small, balding man always did so with a smile on his face and a peace to his features. Cullen thought that was beautiful. 

  Knelt before the visage of the Prophet, Cullen uttered Her words: “In this the truth is found: Blessed are those who stand before the corrupt and the wicked and do not falter. Blessed are the peacekeepers, the champions of the just _.”_

  The words held more meaning for him now. As a green boy when he had heard them they had meant something far-away. They were his father, who marched off to war before Cullen had been a thought, who fought and bled for his country against the merciless invaders, only to die years later in bed after contracting an infection in the leg. They were his mother who cared for three fatherless children, all sprinting wildly in different directions. His younger sister Mia, a nanny. She had stayed in Honnleath with their mother. His older brother Branson, a soldier of South Reach. He had not been called to Ostagar. But that was good, because he had a wife and a newborn son. The words were them, too, who gave Branson comfort when his family could not.

  They had never been him, though. He had been champion of no one, and he stood before nothing. His father had warned him in the early stages of his boyhood, that if he were to join the Order, he should do so because _he_ willed it; because it was his calling. Not for anyone else. He had not followed that advice, at least in part. Cullen believed in the cause, but because he believed it helped people, believed that he _wanted_ to help people. He had his good intentions and he carried them with him all the way across Lake Calenhad, where he trained with the other boys near a small fishing village.

He had done poorly at the training camp, and that had been discouraging. He had been older but also tall and gangly and ill-prepared in comparison to the others. Perseverance seemed to have little meaning. Good intentions, as the drill sergeant had so kindly informed him, weren’t worth a damn when he was dead. The red-faced man had told him then that he should pack his things and go home. It seemed that was what Cullen had needed to hear. There had been nothing, after that, that he wanted more than to prove him wrong, to exceed where the old man thought he could not. So he fought back, and improved rapidly. He left training feeling like a brother of the Order. On the field of battle he was no better or worse than his fellow man, but at the chantry he had graduated top of his class. He had said his vows, and he came to know pride. And though they weren’t with him, he knew his family would have been proud too. Then, stationed at the Tower under Knight Commander Greagoir, finally, like his Father had told him, Cullen knew what it was to want something for himself—to want it so badly that it consumed him, drove his every action, made him want to do and be better.

But that was when he had met her, blonde and bright-eyed and perfect. And then her Harrowing came, and it was his first. Greagoir had approached him the day prior, placed a shiny new blade in his hand, clapped him on the shoulder, and told him to be ready. 

Then, he wanted it no longer.

But that was why he knew he was truly a man, now. He knew the cost. Boyhood fantasies would serve him no purpose from here forward. His father had been wrong. _Want_ did not matter when you were tasked with drawing the line between good and evil; when lives were on the line. He had wanted _her_. He had wanted the approval of his peers, and the Commander. He had wanted brotherhood and justice and righteousness and peace and so, so many things. Now, he wanted for nothing, and the Maker smiled on him.

“Ser Cullen,” a voice called gently from over his left shoulder. He turned his head.

“Hm?” It was the little priest.

“Forgive me. I did not mean to interrupt. It’s just that you’re here so late, and so often.”

“I…prefer it quiet. Peaceful.”

“So do I. Was there…was there anything you wished to discuss? To confess?”

“No, Brother. Thank you. I’ll take my leave.”

“As you wish. Maker be with you.”

In truth, he only wished to be alone. He only ever wished to be alone since the incident. It was freeing, in a way. For so long he had craved the opposite, to feel her skin under his and her love flowing through him. He was lighter now. Weightless, almost.

The walls of the Tower had, as his time had passed among them, become a comfort. As he walked circles about its floors, the stone, seamlessly laid, would only go on and on. Even in the lion’s den, there was a semblance of order. A promise that some things would always remain the same.

His feet found the library. He should have retired to his chambers, but something drew him here. His bare hand ran itself down the length of a wooden table, its surface cluttered with loose pages and old books that an apprentice had likely neglected to put away. The hand that lay upon the wood made a fist, and he pushed his weight into it, shutting his eyes and casting the memories from his mind. Soon, the searing pain was gone. 

Murmuring alerted him. Through the book-stacked shelves he could see dark figures only a few yards from him. From their red robes and decorated pauldrons, he knew they were senior mages. A small candle illuminated their meeting, but not enough for him to see their faces. Most had their backs to his hiding spot. It took only a moment for him to notice that he was the only templar in the library. _Why were there no guards this night?_

“Uldred has become a problem,” said a voice.

“Bloody Libertarians. Anarchists, the lot of them!”

“They’re worried.” A different voice said. “In times like these, who can blame them?”

“I can. The Blight won’t take the Tower.”

“Says who? You?”

“Says bloody King Calenhad! The darkspawn won’t cross the lake.”

“That won’t stop them. You didn’t see the massacre. It was…it changed you.”

“So we’re to let Uldred do as he pleases?” another voice asked. “If we wait much longer, this will spread. The younger mages will stop listening to reason. Libertarians, Isolationists, Resolutionists, all. He’s taking them by storm.”

“If Irving found out, there’d be war.”

“We’re already at war. What’s another?”

“No. Bigger. This could reach far. The Circle would tear itself apart. It must be stopped here.”

“Inaction is our safest bet. Uldred could—“

“Hold,” said one. There was a pause. “I believe we have a fly on the wall.”

Silence swept the room and Cullen froze. The candle in the next room went out, independent of human interaction, as if there were a draft, and the library went pitch dark. Cullen frowned. He gripped his pommel tightly, and in a spout of bravery, rounded the shelves.

The tiny flame of the candle was alight once more, and the mages were gone. A chill ran down his spine. He twisted and turned and scoured the alcove in search of them, to find nothing. 

Foul magic had caused them to elude him. He scowled and released his grip on his blade. Their words, however, had been curious. He knew Uldred, or knew of him, more like. Enough to know that Irving disliked him. The professor was popular with his younger students. And now he would use his influence to…to what?

He would not walk with this weight on his shoulders. He would tell someone. Irving, perhaps? Though he may know more of that which these mages spoke, they had said his reaction would be disastrous. And perhaps he wouldn’t share his knowledge with Greagoir. Perhaps he would try to handle the situation on his own. No. It had to be Greagoir. Only he could set Cullen’s mind at ease.

~~~

Not five minutes later, knuckles rapped four times in quick succession on the dark wooden door. Cullen heard scrambling behind the panels and an unbolting of at least two different locks. Greagoir peered through the small crack he made, looking off-putting in a loose grey tunic and hastily placed dark trousers that he clutched, unfastened, in one fist. The light from the hall shone on one steely white-gray eye. A dark brow contorted almost sinisterly above it, casting a shadow.

“Rutherford. Do you know what bloody time it is? What’s this about?”

“Yes, Knight-Commander. My apologies. It’s urgent.” The Commander’s eyes widened a bit and his voice changed to a harsh whisper.

“There hasn’t been an escape, has there?”

“No, Ser. It’s something else. May I come in?”

“…Yes. Hurry, now.” Greagoir hurriedly fastened his pants and ushered him in with a quick hand to the shoulder. Cullen heard the door lock behind him as he entered.

  The room was spacious and pleasant enough. A tall, narrow window graced the wall behind the Knight-Commander’s desk. Windows were rare in the Tower. Only the Templars’ floors had them. Cullen shared his new, spacious quarters with three other men, and their room similarly only had one. Each man kept his room key tucked in a niche in his armor, as was protocol. Wards were placed on the doors as well, designed to inflict pain when tampered with, but even that would sometimes not deter the mages.

  The desk was beautiful—surely one of the nicest pieces the Tower had—as was the chair behind it, cushioned in red velvet and framed in mahogany. To the side, there was an alcove for the Commander’s living quarters behind a privacy curtain. Cullen considered the man who lived and slept and ate alone. There were few of his comrades he held much love for, and he too craved solitude as of late, but this room in particular seemed terribly sad, even if the accommodations were nice enough. In Honnleath, he and his brother had shared a room, and Mia was always there too. She would often sneak in during the late hours with her little wooden chessboard their Father had found in Highever, and she and Cullen would sit on the floor and play. Some of the pieces were wobbly and a few of the dark squares had faded at the edges, but remembering it now gave him a sweet nostalgia. Branson would see the two of them, roll his eyes and turn back over in bed. Games of the mind had never interested his brother, but they enthralled Cullen. He still remembered his first victory against his sister. He would remember it on his deathbed, most like.

  He considered the room again and hoped he would never live in one like it.

  “Well, now that you’re here, how about a drink, boy?” Greagoir sauntered over to a small wet bar at the back of the room that held a few nice looking glass decanters with amber liquid inside. Cullen shook his head.

  “No thank you, Ser.”

  “Oh, you’re off hours. It’s all right. I’ve got a brandy here that’ll—”

  “I couldn’t, Ser. But thank you,” Cullen said, rather too quickly.

  “Well, al-bloody-right.” The Knight-Commander poured his own drink, and promptly swallowed it in one gulp. The quickness of the fluid to the back of his throat must have startled him, as he began coughing, all while Cullen waited patiently. “It’s good that you came, in fact, Rutherford,” he continued, his voice a rasp and his grey beard and moustache now splashed with small drops of amber. “It only just occurred to me that I wanted to speak with you.” Greagoir did not sit in the beautiful, pristine red chair. He placed his hands on its frame and leaned upon it, towering above Cullen. 

  “If I might, Ser, I really have to tell you—” Greagoir held up a finger.

  “You may not.” Cullen furrowed his brow, curiously. “I’ll admit that I’ve been neglecting my charges. Every man has his faults, after all, and I have not checked to see how you were faring after that…incident with the Amell girl.”

  This was a trick, and Cullen knew he walked a thin line. The right answer here was casual, but distant. Honest, but cold; devoid of feeling for her or her memory. The wrong answer would have him transferred away, or worse yet, sent home in disgrace. He had come to Greagoir tonight to do his duty as a templar, and even that had been perverted into a test—a game. Had he been alone, he might have sneered. The thought made him ill. 

“Permission to speak freely, Ser?”

“Go ahead, boy.”

“It’s just—” he paused for thought. “Seeing blood magic firsthand is no small thing, Ser. I’ve had trouble sleeping ever since that night.”

He could see Greagoir going red, bursting at the seams, as if he were ready to explode again, just as he had done to her. But no, Cullen knew that he wouldn’t. He had tried to play the friend, after all. A commanding officer his charges could confide in. He couldn’t give it up so soon, or he’d never get what he wanted. That was how it was done, or so he believed. Mia had a similar tell when she would bluff. His sister was a spitfire. But she was far more endearing than the Commander. Signs of her frustration were small, and impressively easy to miss.

  “Yes, I…of course that’s understandable. Evil in its purest form will keep any man with blood in his veins awake at night.” Cullen thought that maybe Greagoir was done, and that they could move on to the problem at hand. He was not. “I saw it in her eyes too, when she looked at me. When she _laughed_ at me. She was waiting for her opportunity to do the same, I knew. To slice her wrist and kill me where I stood. Don’t know what Irving ever saw in her. I hope that bloody Warden was pleased with the maleficar bitch. She didn’t win the war for him, so it seems.” Greagoir laughed. It was a disturbing sound.

  Cullen hadn’t been looking at Greagoir. He was looking at the window behind him, at a fixed star in the distance. When the Commander’s voice stopped, Cullen looked down, and seeing the white around his knuckles which gripped at his chair, quickly relaxed them. 

  Not taking notice of this, Greagoir appeared pleased with the reaction he had garnered. After a short moment of waiting for an outburst from Cullen that did not come, he spoke.

  “Glad to know you’re as firm on this issue as I am, Rutherford. One more whiff of blood magic in the Tower…well. I’d sooner let the whole thing burn.”

  The star seemed to flare. Or maybe it was just in his head.

  “What…uhm, now what was it you wanted to speak to me about? What was so bloody urgent to make an old man crawl out of bed in the dead of night, hm?”

  “You know what, Ser, it seems to have slipped my mind.”

  Greagoir frowned. “Oh. I…see.”

  “Terribly sorry, Ser. If I think of it, I’ll let you know. My brain’s just been rattled of late.” Cullen stood.

  “Of course. No need to worry. Go on, get some rest, boy, it’ll do you well.”

  “Thank you, Ser.” His hand was on the door handle when he was stopped.

  “Rutherford?”

  “Yes, Ser?” He turned his head only, desperate to leave, but Greagoir inched closer and closer still, suffocating him. A hand grasped him by the shoulder once again, in what was supposed to be comradeship. It didn’t feel like it.

  “I know you had your soft spot for her. I remember our discussion last year. Things looked grim for you, boy. But it’s good to see you’ve moved past it. There’s no room for weakness like that in the Order.”

  “Of course, Ser. I know that now.”

  “Shame, too. Pretty face wasted on a mage, and now it’s rotting away in some field.” He shook his head. “But no love lost in the end, eh boy? A whore’s a whore, that’s what I say.”

  He endured the firm clap to the shoulder. He took it with a nod, a tight smile, and when he opened the door he could finally breathe again.

~~~

  “You knew Lily, didn’t you?” 

  The three women looked at him with bewildered expressions. He had approached the initiates towards the back of the Chantry, out of sight. It was a new day, and he was in way over his head. But if he spent his downtime alone in his bunk, he’d lose his mind. So, instead, he had put himself to work. 

  The one with dark hair spoke for the other two, who looked almost frightened.

  “Ser Cullen, please. This is a place of worship.”

  “And no one is listening to us, so you can speak freely. Please, I’m not here to start trouble. I just need information. You don’t…have to be afraid.”

  “Yes, we knew her.” She nodded.

  “Did you know Jowan, too?” That made them even more nervous. “Please, anything you can—”

  “He came to the Chantry often. He seemed nice. I knew him,” a different, more nervous woman spoke. “But _not_ that they were together. Maker forbid, I would never have—”

  “It’s alright, really. Did he ever talk about anyone else? Someone he spoke to regularly? A friend? A confidant? I won’t give anyone your names, please.”

  The women went quiet. One looked sheepishly up at him.

  “Well, of course, there was Solena.”

  He looked away.

  “No, wait,” another said. “He came in with a friend, once. It wasn’t her, it was a man. Older than him by a few years. Or, at least, he wasn’t an apprentice.”

  “Do you have a name?” he asked.

  “Oh! I know who you mean!” another said, rather loudly.

  “Quiet, Lyra!” the dark haired one shot back.

  “Sorry. It’s Niall. Brown hair, a bit of stubble. You’ll find him in the library probably, with this horribly serious look about him. Ruins his handsome features.”

  “Andraste’s grace, Lyra!”

  “Really, Lyra. You’re speaking to a templar.”

  “Oh, Lily had the real thing. I’m only playing.”

   Cullen cleared his throat.

  “Thank you, ladies. I’ll…leave you to it.”

~~~

  Lyra had been right. The man he needed was not hard to find among the books. He had seen him here before, he supposed. Granted, whenever Cullen had been stationed in the library, she had been there, and hence there had ever only been one thing on his boyish mind. 

  The loud scratch of pen to paper prevented him from speaking. Niall would not lift his head from his studies for even a templar, it seemed.

  “One moment, Ser, and I’ll be with you.” 

  “I am hardly a patient man. I need to—”

  “Well, I find that quite hard to believe, considering you waited _very_ patiently for three years for a girl who didn’t reciprocate your feelings.” The mage still didn’t look up from his work. Cullen’s gloved hands made fists.

  “Watch your tongue,” Cullen spat. “And mind your superiors.”

  “I know why you’re here, and I know it’s not on official business, Ser Cullen. You’re not very threatening.”

  “How do you—”

  “Greagoir already asked me where Jowan went, so I assume you’re another hopeful freelancer, right? Well, when I say _asked,_ of course I mean that I was strapped to a chair and threatened with tranquility. And I already told him that I don’t have that information. Only guesses. You can have my guesses, if you like, but they’ll do you about as much good as they’re doing him.” The corner of Niall’s mouth pulled up in a small, nearly miss-able smirk.

  “I’m not here for Jowan.”

  “I don’t know where Anders is, either.”

  Cullen narrowed his eyes. “You’re wearing me thin, mage. Let me ask my questions and I promise to leave you be.” 

  Niall slammed his book shut and turned to face him, finally, gritting his teeth.

  “ _What_?”

  “What do you know of Uldred?”

  Niall’s body seemed to still. Cullen recognized the color that his face was turning. It matched his knuckles which had gripped the chair so tightly just the night before.

  “I can’t help you.”

  “Why not? He’s your professor, isn’t he?”

  Niall swallowed nervously. “Listen, I don’t know what you’ve heard, but it’s for people far higher up on the food chain than you. I’m doing you a favor.”

  “Has Greagoir come asking about him too?”

  “No. And it needs to stay that way. Maker, if he did…”

  “If whatever this is threatens the Tower, someone needs to know.”

  “I’m glad you templars live in a world where everything is so simple.” Niall’s contempt was evident. “I won’t be responsible for Greagoir tearing the Tower to pieces on rumor. Maybe you don’t care now, but if she were still here, you wouldn’t want that either.”

  Cullen scowled. “If you tell me nothing, rest assured, I _will_ take this to the Knight-Commander.”

  Niall grimaced, but then slowly began to study Cullen’s face as he had studied his books, with great care and meticulous consideration. “You think you’re better than the rest of them,” he said. “You’re not. Just like she said.”

  The words were meant to hurt him, but Cullen did not retreat. He stared the mage down with a hard look.

  Niall shook his head. “I said I won’t be responsible for Greagoir’s wrath, and I meant it. But, since I can’t stop you,” he swallowed and wrote a name down on a small piece of parchment. “One of Uldred’s people. They’re dangerous and radical. But that doesn’t mean I want to see harm come to any of them. Please, just talk to him. Decide for yourself what must be done, since you’re so certain this is what you want.”

  Cullen grabbed the parchment in his closed fist and stood. He nodded tersely. He would hear this mage out, provided he was willing to talk. He saw no harm in that. Any man could listen to reason. 

  “Now get out of my sight, _templar_. And don’t ask me for anything ever again.”

  Niall flipped back open his large old book, and once again began pushing pen to paper, more furiously this time, as though his violent scratchings would somehow injure the templar standing above him.

~~~

  Through the winding dark midnight corridors, the boy he sought after had caught on, all too quickly, that he was being followed. And he was quite that: a boy. Niall had given no warning as to the apprentice’s age. Why, he was no older than fifteen. Though he grew angrier by the second, Cullen supposed it made little difference. Fifteen was old enough to tell right from wrong. It was certainly old enough to be a templar.

  Cullen had found him in the commons, suspiciously alone, and had trailed him from there. The skinny thing, with the pointed ears of an elf no less, did many double-takes as he took notice of Cullen following at a distance behind him, the only other walking about the hallways this late in the night.

  He took off into a sprint and Cullen was quick to follow suit, wrinkling the deep red carpet beneath his boots. Though he did not wish to alarm the rest of the Tower, he would not give up this lead now. The boy had left him no choice. 

  The boy was quicker than he was, that much was certain, but he was a piss-poor hider, mostly because he thought he was clever. At a hallway intersection, one door was left ajar and the other was tightly shut. One firm push onto the closed door elicited a yelp of surprise. Cullen grabbed ahold of the boy’s arm and pinned him to the wall of the small supply closet, pressing his forearm down onto his throat. He tried to be gentle enough, without allowing him to get the slip. 

  The boy was only an apprentice, but often that meant the most dangerous. Apprentice meant untrained, and untrained meant unable to distinguish their mana from their emotions, unable to control their outbursts. Cullen maintained a steady drain of his magic. It required a fair amount of effort, as he had rarely had to do it since training. But a steady drain could not only stabilize his magic and keep them both safe, it could calm the boy. Or, at least, he hoped.

  “You’re awful bloody jumpy, you know that? I just wanted to talk.”

  The spit from the boy’s mouth hit his face nearly before Cullen could finish his sentence. He could have tightened his grip, but he resisted the urge. He didn’t know quite why, but there were flashes. Niall’s venomous tone, _“Just like she said_ ”, and icy blues that seemed to watch his soul.

  “ _Dirthara-ma, shem._ Uldred _bellanaris din’an heem.”_

__ Cullen had no way to understand him, of course. Elvish was certainly not a part of Chantry curriculum. It was a dead language, anyway, or so he thought. But he was sure, regardless, that he got the gist.

  “What a coincidence—Uldred was just the man I wanted to talk to you about.” The boy sneered. “You’ll tell me what he’s doing or I’ll give you to Greagoir and Irving, and you’ll like them far less than you like me.”

  “He understands us! He won’t sit on his hands like the templars, let the Blight take us! He knows! He knows what the templars know but will not tell us! The Libertarians are behind him, the Isolationists too! And the maleficarum!”

  “Maleficarum? What does he need maleficarum for?”

  “ _Fen’Harel ma halam,”_ he muttered.

  Cullen increased his drain. 

  The boy hissed. “To make us better! Make us complete! So we can fight the darkspawn! He saw what was at Ostagar—he knows what’s coming. He wants us to be ready for it. Templars want us all to die here. The Knight-Commander would rather the darkspawn kill us all, save him the trouble.” Cullen shook his head in disbelief. “We’re going to make everyone better—whole again!”

  “ _We_?” Cullen narrowed his eyes, processing the boy’s comment. As the elf boy clawed at his arm, he glanced down at the boy’s sleeves. Furrowing his brow, he swiftly pulled them down with his other hand. Scars, some old, some fresh, littered the boy’s otherwise smooth dark skin. 

  It should have angered him. It should have infuriated him. In a way, it did. Not in the way that it should. But mostly, he felt the sadness come crashing upon him like a swift blow to the chest. It gave him a horrible sick feeling that ate, and ate, and ate upon him, each time more painful than the last. Was this what Greagoir had meant when he had said he saw weakness inside him? Cullen thought he had pried it out with tooth and nail when he had cast her from his mind. He hoped to have uprooted it, like a weed, but it seemed to have only grown back incessantly; mercilessly. 

  The man Cullen would have grabbed the boy by the ear and dragged him to the Knight-Commander’s office to give a second confession. It would take Greagoir not much longer than it had taken him to find the scars. Then, the elf boy who was not more than fifteen would have been made tranquil. And the man Cullen would have lived with that. 

  But the boy Cullen could not. The boy Cullen still thought of her, and her face, staring back at him void of feeling and life, but still alive. Heart beating, but barely. Eyes that he could no longer see himself staring back in. Eyes that no longer stirred him. He thought of tranquility and he shuddered. And so the boy Cullen let the elf go. As Cullen wiped the spit from his face, the elf boy sprinted out of the supply closet in a mad dash, and the padded sound of his echoed footsteps in the corridor faded, faded, faded away.

~~~

  The encounter with the boy had exhausted Cullen. The drain had required a great deal of his power, and that night, he fell onto his bunk after a heavy dose of lyrium, and sleep took him.

  In the fade he was drowning. Hands that he did not know grabbed at him below the water and held him there. What scared him most was that he did not reach up. He did not fight. He let the darkness take him; another corpse in the dark, blue deep. And then he woke.

  Somehow, the watery grave in his dream had been terribly familiar. Though he had caught only a glimmer of it from beneath the dark, it had felt to him like the small lake he had gone to so often as a boy, on the occasion that his siblings overwhelmed him. He would skip stones across the water’s surface and watch the ripples, entranced by their rhythmic simplicity. Now, that peaceful memory blended with this nightmare, and he shuddered. Was there nothing the creatures of the fade held sacred? No part of a person that even they would not touch? He longed for dreamless sleeps, like the dwarves of Orzammar had. Miles beneath the surface with stone above their heads, they slept soundly each night without fear of the fade, or the demons that embodied it. Cullen was envious.

  But envy was a sin, along with so many other thoughts he had dancing around in his head and eating at his soul, like termites. When he prayed, lately, he found himself praying only for forgiveness.

  His early-morning rise gave him a headache. 

  His brothers had not yet woke, and so Cullen dressed in his plate with care and ease, and made sure his footfalls out the door and into the dimly lit corridor were as soft as could be. 

  It was not ten steps from the door when he could go no further, as a cloaked figure came rounding the hall that halted his steps and froze his mind and soul. But he could not back away. The figure of Uldred prowled like a wolf might, closer and closer, grinning wildly at him. Cullen felt that if the sorcerer’s jaws opened any wider, they would open and engulf him and eat him whole.

  “Templar,” the dark form hissed, much like a serpent. But his voice was many voices. It was Greagoir’s, and Solena’s, and his family’s, and the voice of the elf boy he had let run from him.  It was voices he had known ages ago, and voices he would come to know. And they had all come to watch him crumble. “You cannot hide your soul from a god.”

  Cullen could not open his mouth. Before Uldred’s teeth could tear at the skin of his face, the world went dark.

  He woke again, his clothes and bedsheets drenched in sweat. The decision was quick. The walk to Greagoir’s office was not.

~~~

Like they had only one month prior, the uniform sound of marching footsteps echoed throughout the tall, stony walls of Kinloch Hold. This time, Cullen was among them.

The men Greagoir had rallied had been eager to answer the call. Too eager, Cullen thought. Like lion cubs fighting over a fresh kill, brother had shoved aside brother in hopes of being chosen for the select squadron that would move in on Uldred. Cullen blamed it on the war. The men were eager to have a physical enemy here, in the tower. One through which they could channel their fear and uncertainty into a sense of purpose and renewed control. Cullen doubted very much they would be successful.

As compensation for his efforts, Cullen was selected to march at the head, with the Knight-Commander. He was anxious, and his palms and forehead perspired. His night-terrors had not helped, certainly. But it was what was to come that day that truly frightened him. For the first time since her Harrowing night, he felt trapped in his suit. He worried, fleetingly, if his nightmares that night would be of him desperately clawing at the buckles. No matter how hard he tried, they would not loose.

He saw the terrified faces of the mages as the thirty men marched 'round the corner and passed door after door. He wondered at how many of them had sacrificed their blood as well as their sanity at Uldred's feet. Perhaps he truly did not want to know.

It was Greagoir who pounded on Uldred's office door, a sound that straightened the backs of every man, woman and child in the hall.

"Maker damn you, open up, Uldred! You know why we're here!" Greagoir boomed.

"What—what is the meaning of this?" Irving appeared behind the two of them, having pushed his way through stiff armored shoulders to arrive at the front of the crowd. "Why was I not informed such military action would be taking place?"

"We thought you'd better be kept out of this one, old friend." Greagoir responded gruffly. "Might hit too close to home."

"This is an outrage! You cannot drag mages out of their quarters in the middle of the day to arrest them without my signed consent—parading your troops down the hall like a barbarian! There are children here!"

Greagoir took two long, heavy steps towards the Enchanter so he could peer into his eyes, his chest puffed out so proudly that it almost touched the smaller man—an intimidation tactic that Cullen had seen from him many-a-time. Irving stood his ground. The old man seemed to have some fight left in him, after all.

"Then let this serve as an example to them," Greagoir seethed. "What happens to maleficar who fester like rats inside the walls of my Tower."

Irving shook his head. "The Circle will hear of this, Greagoir," he spat. Greagoir paid no attention to him. He had already walked back to the door, and proceeded to pound on it more with a hard fist.

"Uldred, we will knock down this door! This is your last warning, you bloody snake!"

He was met with silence. Greagoir turned to Cullen and seemed to huff with defeat. He motioned for the troops behind him, and a large templar stepped forward—taller than Cullen by a foot and far heavier besides. He had to only force his shoulder against the door but three times before it gave way. Cullen saw the man tremble as he stood back.

Greagoir entered first. Cullen followed him and Irving pursued behind. But two steps into the room, and the three of them halted. Uldred was nowhere to be found. Instead, where the far wall might have been, there was an awful, sickly green glow—were it not for its color, it might have been a crack in the wall. Its edges were so bright that Cullen could barely peer inside. What he could see was warped, and terrible, and it felt like the screams of his family, of Solena, high-pitched and deafening. It filled him with dread and an unspeakable sadness that tainted all of his happiest memories.

Above the green, smeared on the wall in dripping blood were the words, "We will ascend".

Cullen thought he saw claws gripping the edges of the green tear, right before the screams in his head became so deafening that he could only remember the noise, the horrible green, the dripping blood which soon became rivers, then the white-a murderous, piercing, all-encompassing white-and nothing else.


	16. Alistair III

# Alistair

The cold night air at their camp in the Hinterlands was filled with ash that clogged their lungs and nostrils, and had become an appropriate omen of the day they had had, and the many similar days and nights they would have yet to come.

  As Alistair stood warming his hands by the fire, he looked to his left and saw a hornless Qunari, convicted of murder. He looked to his right, and saw the lay sister that had sullied three trained and seasoned men in a bar brawl. If he peered to the edge of camp, the swamp witch milled about her own small fire, likely plotting the quiet and painful deaths of every bloody one of them. And next to him, Solena slept quietly as a mouse. It was all so bloody surreal.

  “That fire smells horrible. Add a log, at least. For your sake, since you’ll be the one keeping watch.” The sister spoke to him in a low voice, cautious of the sleeping woman beside him. Alistair acknowledged her with incoherent grumbling and by doing as she asked, sitting himself back down on the dirt once he finished. It was a sweet enough sounding suggestion from the sister, if he didn’t know it was really a command.

  At dawn, they would ride for Redcliffe. He had insisted he keep watch that night. He would not sleep anyway, and though he needed years to properly collect his thoughts, he would settle for the night. Solena had protested, of course, at first. But, inevitably, her need for rest overruled her. She protested little after the yawns had started. Alistair doubted the Qunari would close his eyes that night, though. He started to wonder if he _ever_ closed his eyes. That thought startled him. 

  Though, he supposed if the beast was going to crush their skulls, eat the bloody horses and leave, that it would be a less painful end still than what the Teyrn had planned for them. In times like these, one really must look on the bright side.

  Below him, there was a loud, abrupt rustling, and Solena sat up, straight as a needle. Her wool blanket pooled at her waist. Her face was offputtingly spooked. She did not look at anything in particular, and her hands were clamped tightly over her mouth.

  “Bad dreams?” he offered.

  She did not respond.

  “I get them all the time. They were at their worst right after my Joining. Scared me shitless, kid that I was. Still do, in their own way. Less startling, maybe.”

  Still, the woman was silent. She removed her hands slowly from her face and grasped at the dirt. She squished it beneath the palms of her hands and in between her fingers, as if she felt it for the first time.

  “Anything you want to talk about?”

  When the response was not there, he shook his head and prodded the fire. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the sister crawl inside her tent. At least, if she did decide to talk to him, they’d have a shred of privacy.

  “I haven’t dreamt in years,” she confessed at once. She sounded far-off and distant—as if in a dank, dark echoed room many miles away.

  “What?” he tossed the prod aside, baffled.

  “I take tea at night. It cuts off my connection to the Fade, for a time. I got these… _terrible_ night terrors when I was a kid. I’d wake up _screaming_ , drenched in sweat, every night, the sisters didn’t know what to do with me, the Revered Mother said a prayer over me—didn’t help, and the Templars…well. Their patience always wore very thin.”

  He listened intently as her face turned to a small half-smile.

  “So Irving gave me tea.”

  “Irving?”

  “Oh! That’s right, you were never stationed. First Enchanter. He mentored me. Took a liking to me as a kid, I guess.”

  “I shudder to imagine what _you_ were like as a kid.” he smiled and so did she.

   “Oh, equal parts wild and…scared shitless.” She laughed—a sound he had not heard before. He thought of asking her to do it again, so it might put him to sleep.

  “The tea…it worked,” she continued. “I haven’t dreamt since. And then…tonight. There were flashes the…the night of the Joining.” She looked at him hesitantly as she referenced it. He was sure his face reflected a similar discomfort. “I didn’t know what they were until now.”

  He thought he might respond, but the heart of the fire distracted him. 

  “Is that…really the Archdemon?” she pulled him out of his trance with a question. He didn’t know how long he had been staring.

  “You’re asking me if it’s really a dragon?”

  She furrowed her brow.

  “Sorry. You’re asking what I asked Duncan, my first night as a Warden. If it’s speaking to you. If it’s really the Archdemon popping in to say hello, or if it’s all just one big trick of the Fade.”

  “And?”

  Alistair shook his head. “I don’t know. No one knows. Well, maybe someone did, but it doesn’t matter now. It’s the Taint. The darkspawn blood. Gets into your head, and it fucks with you. How it does that…doesn’t matter. It’s just one more thing to get used to.”

  “It doesn’t matter to you if an Old God is seeing into your head, whispering into your ear?”

  He shrugged. “Should it? Don’t know if I believe any of that, anyway. It’s a dragon, and the damned things worship it. We kill it, the Blight ends.”

  “Surely you know that the truth is something far more complicated.”

  “Not from where I’m standing. Belief and investment in all that rubbish just gives it power. I choose not to do that.”

  That seemed to defeat her. She shook her head, and appeared to have no more questions as she looked away. All of the sudden, her head darted back to him and she glared curiously.

  “What did you mean when you said, ‘one more thing to get used to’?”

  His chin fell to his chest and he sighed. “Oh, Maker.” 

  “What? What is it?”

  He shouldn’t be the one to tell her. That was cruel, even for the Wardens. But so were their circumstances. It would be crueler not to tell her. He would want to know. When Duncan had told him, he had been angry, of course. He felt tricked; betrayed. Demanded to know why he wasn’t told sooner. But he had nowhere else to go, and Duncan knew that too. He had…he had just gotten used to it. Whether or not she would…well. 

  “There’s the hunger! Oh, the hunger…” he started. “Maker, the days after my Joining I _raided_ the kitchens. The cook found me the next morning, passed out in a self-made bed of biscuit and cheese crumbs. And, well, let’s see, you know about the dreams—”

  “Spit it out, Alistair.”

  “You’ve got thirty more years to live!” he blurted, before he could think to stop himself. He cleared his throat. “At most.”

  And there came the look that he had dreaded. Sheer, pointed anger. At him, no doubt. Her brows creased together and her eyes were icy and hard.

  _“No.”_ It came as a whisper. She cocked her head and her jaw tightened.

__ “The Taint in their blood is a poison,” he explained, “and it effects all living creatures the same—the Wardens have no cure. But when taken in such large doses, drinking it…it either changes you or it kills you. No one knows why some people adapt and others don’t. As far as I’ve been able to tell, it’s random chance. But it gives us an edge. We can sense darkspawn, hear them, a mile away. You did, at the Tower of Ishal. And I can too. And we’re the only ones that can kill an Archdemon, supposedly. But it…it’s in your blood. And it’s killing you. Slowly, but surely. And then, one day—thirty, twenty, ten years from now…”

  An angry wetness had formed at the corners of her eyes and her voice broke. “It’s a lie.”

  “It’s not a lie. It’s an omission. Do you think we’d get bloody volunteers if—”

  “Call it whatever you like. Your army thrives on tricking people into some cruel joke, like these people’s lives are meaningless to you! That’s not right!”

  “It’s not ‘right’? What’s not right is to sit and do nothing while villages are burned and innocents are slaughtered! The men and women at Ostagar were soldiers! They were prepared to die _that day_ for their country, let alone thirty years in the future! Every battle we see after that will be a _million_ times worse, and you _have_ to know that now, or it’ll come as one big shock for you later. Pig farmers and their wives and children will be run down by the hundreds, people will starve and wither away in the cold, but Wardens can do something about that— _you_ can wake up and do something. Or you can go back and sit in your tower on a lake and hope the darkspawn don’t reach you.”

  “How _dare_ you—”

  “Don’t start! You know I’m right, we both know why you’re here. And those are your fucking options. You go back, and you’re miserable, or you stay, and you make something of yourself. And don’t go thinking you’re special, because those were my options too. And I know I chose right.”

  “You believe that. You actually believe that those are your only two options in life?”

  “I do. And it’s not right, and it’s not fair, but it’s the way things are. I was _furious_ when Duncan told me. I threw things, smashed plates, I’m sure. Said things I regret. But you know what? Time and age and the rest of your forsaken life have a way of giving you some perspective. And now…now I’d give anything to give him my thirty years. If it’d…if it’d just bring him back.”

  “Alistair…”

  “He’s gone, and I know that, alright?” In a moment of clarity, he heard the sound of his own voice and realized he was crying. He hoped the bloody swamp witch hadn’t heard the shouting and decided to look over.

  “Alistair, I’m so sorry,” she said warmly. 

  “He told me…” he started. The words had a hard time forming themselves into sounds. “He told me, not too long ago, that he was hearing it.”

  “Hearing…?”

  “The Calling. What all Wardens hear, when it’s time. When it comes, a Warden says their last goodbyes and heads down into the Deep Roads, to die in battle.”

  “What does it sound like?”

  “If I knew, we’d be in trouble.” It was supposed to be a joke, but neither of them laughed. “But Duncan seemed to think it was just intuitive. He said, after Ostagar, that he’d go. I guess I really just tried not to think about it.”

  “Alistair,” she began. He turned. “He didn’t die for nothing.”

  “Yes, I’d like to believe that,” he told her. He knew it sounded a lot like hypocrisy. He was just glad she chose not to call him out on it. “He was from Highever. At least, that’s what he told me. After this is all done— _if_ this is ever over, I’d…I’d like to go there. Set up a memorial in his honor. It’s the bloody least I could…I mean—”

  “I’ll go with you.” Her hand that was still muddy from the ground moved to lay on top of his own. The sensation was warm and cold all at once—oddly soothing. “If you’ll have me,” she added.

  “I’d like that,” he said. And that was the truth. He’d go on his own if he had to, but having someone with him might make the toll on his heart just that much more bearable. Her offer was selfless. It surprised him.

  “We can pitch you a tent, you know,” he offered. “We have the supplies.” She shook her head. Her hand moved and left his own upsettingly cold. She laid her back down on her small makeshift bed of blankets, lacing her fingers together and propping them behind her head.

  “When you’ve spent your entire life looking up at the same stone wall…well. I know plenty of mages who’d give anything for this view.” The smoke from the fire polluted the air, but he could not deny the beauty of the stars.

  “Yourself included?”

  “Absolutely.” The grin on her face was contagious.

  Here, there was a comfortable silence that they both fell into as easily as one might slip into a wonderful, deep sleep. He had not felt such comfort since the nights at the Warden compound in Denerim. Although those nights were often louder, polluted by the city noise, they held an air of similarity to this one. Often he would sneak upon the roof to look at the stars and would be asleep before he knew it. His brothers had quite the time covering for him when he would be absent from his bunk the next morning. Duncan must have known, but he never told him so.

  “How do you know the arl?” she asked, breaking his reverie.

  “Hm?”

  “You said he was a good man. Sounded like you knew him.”

  “Oh? Did I say that?”

  “Yes.”

  “That was silly of me. Don’t know him.”

  “Sounds like you do.”

  “Bloody…” he sat up, rubbing his head between his thumb and forefinger.

  “Why are you covering for this?” she remained relaxed, radiating indifference. The woman was a bloody menace.

  “I’m not— _listen_ ,” he started, and sighed a heavy sigh. He had not planned on telling her this tonight. He would tell her tomorrow, when she was rested and far less irritable. But she had burrowed down this rabbit hole, and it seemed as though he would follow. Of all the blasted…

  He feigned deep thought. “Hm, let’s see, how do I put this—I’m a bastard.” He saw her mouth threaten to open and he jumped one step ahead of her. “And _before_ you make any smart comments, I mean the fatherless kind.” Her lips closed and she seemed to want to let him continue.

  “My mother was a serving girl in Redcliffe Castle who died when I was very young. Arl Eamon wasn’t my father, but he took me in anyhow and put a roof over my head. He was good to me. And he didn’t have to be. I respect the man, and I don’t blame him anymore for sending me off to the Chantry once I was old enough.”

  “Anymore?” She propped herself up on one elbow.

  “Yes, well, you know how kids can be. I was young and resentful and not very pious. I screamed at him—smashed an amulet against the wall, the only thing I’d ever had of my mother’s, and I squandered it.”

  “You were a child.”

  “I know. And now I’ve nothing to remember her by. I can’t even see her face.”

  Solena was silent. The light of the fire framed her. She did not look at him, but slightly past him, to the right. She was somewhere else again—far-off. He wondered if this would be a regular thing of hers. He continued anyway.

  “Eamon eventually married a young woman from Orlais, which caused all sorts of problems between him and the king, because it was so soon after the war. But he loved her. Anyhow, the new arlessa resented rumors that pegged me as Eamon’s bastard. They weren’t true, but of course they existed. So off I was packed to the nearest monastery at age ten. Just as well. The arlessa made sure the castle wasn’t a home to me at that point. She despised me.”

  Solena seemed quiet. But she must have just been considering what he had told her, because her question came sure enough.

  “Did he visit?”

  “For a time, just to see how I was. But I was stubborn, and I hated it there, and I blamed him for everything. After a while, he just stopped coming.”

  She had no response this time. Alistair instantly regretted telling her what he had. She was likely only asking to make polite conversation, or to get a sense of the arl and his character. Instead he had told her a pathetic sob story. 

  “All I know is that Arl Eamon is a good man,” he said. “And well-loved by his people. And he was Cailan’s uncle, so he has a personal stake in seeing Loghain pay.”

  She nodded. 

  “That’s good. We can work with that.” She let her elbow slip out from under her and went back to her resting position.

  “How can you sleep in this bloody camp?” he asked her in a harsh whisper.

  “Why? Can’t sleep?”

  “Not with this lot.” He scoffed.

  “Oh, they’re not so bad.”

  “How can you say that?”

  “Leliana wanted to help. She seemed earnest. And she’s a Chantry sister, how bad can she be?”

  “She took down three of Loghain’s men in that pub. Almost single-handedly.”

  “…She’s a very _good_ Chantry sister.”

  “ _Right_.”

  “Sten…Sten’s quiet, and a little foreboding, but I don’t think he’ll hurt us.”

  Alistair glanced carefully in the Qunari’s direction, where he sat cross-legged on a rock, eyes closed and stone-faced. He did not think he had moved in an hour.

  “ _A little foreboding_? Solena, he’s a murderer—”

  “Who wanted to atone! The Revered Mother seemed to agree it would be best that he go with us.”

  “Did she now? Please. With the darkspawn horde closing in on that bloody town, I think she didn’t want the trouble of having to execute him herself.”

  “I think that’s being a little harsh.”

  It wasn’t. 

  “And what’s wrong with Morrigan?” Solena asked, as if she were some sort of simple idiot. _What was wrong with her?_ Please. He looked over to where the witch resided, a safe distance away from them, though Alistair wished she were further. She had not yet retired to her tent, it seemed. Instead she sat cross-legged and played with the fire in front of her, melding it with her hands as it turned colorful shades of purple, green, blue and black. Once she took notice of his prolonged stare, a pair of bright yellow eyes, like two blinding golden jewels, glared daggers back at him. 

  “Well, aside from the fact that she’s a complete and utter _bitch_ —you’re right, what’s not to like?” he retorted.

  “I like her.”

  “Yeah, well, you would.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Don’t take this the wrong way, but I suppose I’m naturally a bit more distrustful of an apostate that’s lived away from civilization her entire life than you are.”

  “It must be better than the Tower.”

  “I don’t know about that.”

  “You wouldn’t.”

  “Fine, can we drop this?” he asked the child, impatiently.

  “She and her mother saved us. And Morrigan tended to your wounds. You should thank her.”

  “Yes, well.”

  “It’s probably why she hates you so much. She thinks you’re ungrateful.”

  “Get some sleep, Solena.”

  “Suit yourself.” She turned over in her blankets, signaling that she was done with the conversation.

  He stood up and walked away from the fire. It had become too hot and it had messed with his lungs, anyhow. If he were to make himself useful, it would be best to check the perimeter. He grabbed his sword that lied in the dirt and went on his way.

  He cut through brush, checking all the noise traps they had set and making sure they were still in place. He and Morrigan had gotten into what must have been their tenth argument of the day when she insisted that she could set magical traps that would be “fifty times more effective than your child’s toys here”. But Alistair had won out, and had strung string, metal cups and spoons, as well as tree bark together around most of the outer camp edge. Checking the traps was mindless work, and as they had only set the traps a few hours ago, it wasn’t really work that needed doing, but he needed something to do while he thought. 

  The arl would not want to see him. He had realized that the moment he had suggested they seek his help, and then it was too late to take it back. And why should he? The last the arl remembered of him was the brat of a boy that he was. The man had cared for him as he would his own son, and he had paid that love back only with hatred. 

  Now he came crawling back, begging on his hands and knees for help. How would the others see him when the arl rejected him? He had every reason to, the least of which being Alistair’s lack of childhood gratitude, and the most of which being…well. 

  He couldn’t tell her. He couldn’t risk complicating their purpose, twisting it into something that could just as easily be used against them. He just had to hope and pray that the arl would set personal grievances aside in favor of common ground, and a common enemy.

  Alistair found himself thumbing at the incessant thing he kept in his pocket, and wondered why he had bothered with it in the first place. It was a stupid notion.

  Behind him, a twig snapped. In an instant, his blade was pointed at the throat of a dwarven man with raised arms emerging from the trees, and another trailing slightly behind him. The former nudged the latter, indicating that he should follow suit and surrender.

  “Pardon me, Master, we mean you no harm!” the older, red-bearded one in the front said.

  “I remember you,” Alistair realized. “We passed you on the Highway. What is the meaning of this? Have you been following us?”

  “No. I mean, well, _yes_.” The bearded dwarf said as he lowered his hood. “But all with good intentions, I might add! My apologies, allow me to properly introduce myself—Bodahn Feddic, at your service! And this bright-eyed lad here is my boy, Sandal. Say hello, Sandal!”

  “Hello,” he managed a small wave. Sandal was clean-shaven and blonde and his eyes were blue, glassy and distant.

  “Very good. We two are traveling merchants, you see. But, with things being as they are with the war and all, well, business has not exactly been _booming_ , as they say. Not only that, but it’s dangerous for two defenseless dwarves walking the Highway, trying to make a living! When our paths crossed at first, I didn’t think anything of it, but now, I’ve had some time, and, well, what safer place is there than the camp of two Grey Wardens? Hm?”

  Alistair lowered his sword and let out an exasperated huff. “I don’t know who you think we are, but you and your son need to leave. We aren’t taking in stragglers.”

   “What’s going on here?” Solena appeared at his side with a sickeningly pleasant demeanor, startling him half to death. Sandal gave her a shy wave and she gave him an overly enthusiastic one in return. “Hi!”

  “Oh, Sandal? No, he’s not my son. Found him in the Deep Roads years ago, I did! Just wandering about! Not much of a talker, you can see, but from what I could get, he was lost, and his parents were, well, _you know_.” He made some sort of strangled noise and confusing motion with his finger and neck. Alistair got the picture.

  “How horrible,” Solena empathized.

  “So I took him under me own wing! Turns out, the boy has a knack for enchantments! You know, placing magical runes on weapons and other such things! We took him to the Circle, and an enchanter said—oh, what was the word he used…a _savant_! That’s right!”

  “Enchantment!” Sandal agreed, giddily.

  “Is there a point you’ll be reaching soon?” Alistair asked. Solena smacked his arm.

  “Oh! Right! So that’s where you come in! The way I see it, we can help! I’m sure Grey Wardens such as yourselves will have need of my boy’s special talents—and free of charge, too! I can also offer you my wares at a discounted price, of course. In exchange, all we ask is a safe place at your fine camp.”

  “Your wares?” Alistair eyed suspiciously the two men who had nothing on them save the clothes on their backs.

  “Oh, we parked our cart a few yards down the road, of course! Didn’t want to startle you.” Bodahn smiled eagerly.

  “Look, there’s been some mistake. We’re not Grey—”

  “Alistair, come on. They’re harmless. And he’s right, we could use them.”

  He crossed his arms and glared down at her.

  “Can I speak to you, alone?” It wasn’t a question. He grabbed her by the elbow and moved her aside, out of earshot, all while he listened to her irritated protests.

  “What is your problem?” she demanded.

  “ _My_ problem? We’ve picked up two extremely dangerous tagalongs in one day, now you want two more?”

  “ _Extremely dangerous_? Those two?” She all but laughed.

  “He says his son’s an enchanter, that’s not even possible, he’s a dwarf!”

  “Hey, maybe he’ll surprise you. If not, we’re doing a good thing for these people. Have a heart, Alistair.”

  “I don’t think we should keep this high of a profile, alright? It was a mistake in Lothering, and now Loghain’s got a bounty on our heads. That news spreads fast.”      

  She placed a dainty hand on his breastplate.

  “Relax. I’ll protect you from the mean, horrible dwarf men.” She winked and walked away before he could grab at her.

  “Do you two need help pulling the cart?” she yelled back at them through the brush. He mouthed the word “NO” at her more times than he could count.

  “Oh thank you very much, my dear, but we’ll manage on our own, won’t we Sandal? Thank the kind lady, my boy!”

  “Thank you, kind lady.”

  “We’ll be back in a jiffy! You won’t regret this, I promise you that!”

  He heard the rustling of leaves and he buried his face in his hands.

  “You’re going to get us all bloody killed. They’re going to come back with an entire army, I just bloody know it,” he mumbled.

  “Oh, ye of little faith.” She shoved playfully at his shoulder and walked back in the direction of the camp. His nighttime watch was off to a roaring start.

~~~

  To Alistair’s amazement, every one of them survived the night. It was less on his account and more out of sheer luck, it seemed. Bodahn and Sandal were true to their word, at least for now, and the Qunari had decided to postpone his murder-spree for another night.

  Still, he remained sleepless. Leliana had insisted he shut his eyes while the rest of them packed camp that morning, but sleep would not take him. He did not mind it so much. She seemed to mind it more, and eyed him with suspicion when she noted what must have been obvious signs of his exhaustion.

  “This not-sleeping thing of yours is going to take a toll on all of us. You should see Morrigan. She might be able to make you something that could help,” the sister told him as they packed up their gear, side by side.

  “Help to put me to sleep and never wake up, more like.”

  He glanced at the back of the sister’s head and a thought came to him.

  “So…what do you think happened to all those people we left behind in Lothering?”

  She shot him a confused glance while she shoved her deconstructed tent into her pack.

   “Well, I didn’t know the place like you did,” he clarified. “Maybe they—”

   “Maybe some of them found their way to Denerim, but that is doubtful. The rest of them are dead, as the Maker has willed.”

  Alistair paused and turned to face her fully, his own pack falling lax in his arm. “And you don’t wish you could have stayed there? To help people?”

  “If the Blight isn’t stopped, everyone will die.” She tightened the straps on her armored gloves. “This is the greater good we’re serving—both of us. Right here.”

   “I…I believe that, yeah. That doesn’t mean you can’t—”

  She shook her head and smiled to herself. “You believe what you must, Alistair. There is still worse to come yet.” She closed her pack and fastened it. After a pause, her eyes searched his, and for a moment he felt naked. “You will need to steel yourself. You know this.”

  “I’m…fine.” 

  “I don’t believe you. And either way, you don’t have a choice.” She picked up her bags and her bow, and left him behind to go saddle her horse.

~~~

  The morning Fereldan countryside was an admittedly welcome sight. Lush trees, flowing, dewy hills and the snow-topped mountains far off to the west made the landscape look like a painting. But no one in their party seemed quite as taken with it as Solena. He had often found her trailing behind on her horse, and had the displeasure of having to wake her from, well, wherever it was her mind took her as she gazed at the horizon. He was hard-pressed to recall a woman who had ever looked at him the way she now looked upon the Fereldan Hinterlands. She had called the scene an “enchantment”, and Sandal had wholeheartedly agreed. Her wonder was…a pleasant enough thing to behold.

  He had begun to wonder at why it was she stayed. Certainly, it was the honorable thing to do, and as a Grey Warden it was her duty, but he had seen enough to know she didn’t care for any of that. There were no Fereldan Wardens left, and if she decided to desert, he couldn’t stop her. He wouldn’t even try. So, he wondered. But he had not yet gathered up the courage to ask.

  Leliana, at the head of the group, seemed to smell the air in a grandiose manner, and sighed like some smitten Orlesian noblewoman from a trashy romance serial.

  “Oh, I just love days like these. There’s no greater reminder of the glory of the Maker’s creation.” She smiled to herself. Alistair just hoped this wouldn’t set her on some wild tangent.

  “Do you believe in the Maker, Morrigan?”

  Alistair nearly gagged.

  There was a brief silence as they rode. “I do apologize I must have misheard, are you speaking to me?” the witch snapped from the horse adjacent his. 

  “Of course. I was asking if you believed in the Maker.” Leliana remained unfazed, happy, and glowing, like some child’s doll. Nothing like earlier that morning.

  “Certainly not! I’ve no primitive fear of the _moon_ such that I must place my faith in tales so that I may sleep at night.”

  “But look at this!” Leliana gestured vaguely to the hills with the hand that wasn’t poised on her reins and saddle. “This can’t all be an accident. And spirits! Magic, all these wondrous things around us, both dark and light. You know these things exist.”

  Morrigan pinched her face together and narrowed her eyes in befuddlement. “The mere fact of their existence does not presuppose an intelligent design by some absentee father-figure.”

  Alistair found the corner of his mouth rising in stifled amusement.

  “So it is all random, then? A happy coincidence that we are all here?” Leliana asked, patiently.

  “I do not know about you, but I would not call that coincidence _happy_.” Morrigan glanced at Alistair and the rest. But certainly, very pointedly at Alistair.

  “I meant in general,” she clarified.

  “I know very well what you meant, and attempting to impose order over chaos is futile. Nature is, by its very nature, chaotic.” Morrigan explained simply.

  “I don’t believe that. Our destinies are not so easily avoided. I believe we have a purpose—all of us.”

  “Yours, apparently, being to bother me.”

  “Look! Is that it?” Solena pointed excitedly.

  True enough, as they moved over the rise, Redcliffe Castle came into view, shadowed by the clouds above. Sharp rays of light struck through, highlighting parts of the castle he had once known but had forgotten with time. The castle sat high upon a rocky island on the lake, and across from it lay the town,  protected from view by rock, tree and hill. Everything about the town appeared still, even the water—it was something he would not normally have associated with the bustling trade hub of his youth. The fishwives that swarmed the markets, the loud brothers that would preach in the square, the knights that patrolled on horseback—all absent. The streets of Redcliffe were empty, and all was quiet.

  “Look at the trees,” Solena called, her head turned to the tall pines above—if one could even call them that. The leaves had been burned off and the trunks were singed off every tree in a clean line leading down the road that went from the castle down to the village.

  “Something’s not right,” he heard himself say, and he shook his reins of his horse and hurried well ahead of the group. When he neared the top of the rise, which became the road that led down into the village, another sound of horse’s hooves in the dirt startled him, and he narrowly missed a man on horse’s back riding up the rise and rounding the corner, moving faster than even he. 

  “Whoa there! Whoa!” The man called out and reared his horse. He was in full plate and his shield bore the red tower. Alistair recognized the man without a second look.

  “Ser Donall! Ser Donall, hold!”

  “My apologies, Ser, but do I—” recognition flashed upon his face, and something else. “Alistair, by the Maker, is that you? What are you doing here?”

  Not ignored was the caution with which Donall asked his intentions. The sounds of the rest of the party approaching came quietly to his left.

  “We’ve come to speak to Eamon, on urgent business. Has something happened? Where is Bann Teagan?”

  Donall seemed at a loss, and wore the most curious of looks. “Do you truly not know? Does no one out there know?”

  “ _Out there_? What—”

  “Why should anyone _out there_ care for the troubles of your putrid fishing village?” spoke the witch. “As if the rest of the world did not have a Blight to contend with.”

  “A…a Blight? I beg your pardon?”

  The group was silent.

  An eternity passed, and Alistair cleared his throat. “Donall, please. What is it that’s happened?”

  “I cannot stay long. I make haste for Denerim, on Bann Teagan’s orders. You can find him down in the village Chantry, he arrived only but a few days ago, he’ll want to see you. But, I’m sorry, I’m afraid speaking to the Arl will not be possible. Nor, for that matter, will you make it to the Castle. It has closed its gates to the village, they haven’t opened in a month’s time.”

  “Spit it out, man! What’s happened to him?”

  “Alistair, I am sorry to bear such news. But Eamon is deathly ill.”


	17. Solena IV

# Part II

# -Dead Come Knocking-

# Solena

"It is a grave matter,” the bann said, and with every word Alistair’s state grew worse. “Isolde has done all that she can, and she searches for every remedy, but Eamon has remained comatose for a month’s time.”

  The bann of Rainesfere had welcomed them to Redcliffe village with open arms. The Chantry, it seemed, had become a shelter for the weak and weary, and reeked of fear and refuse. Tired looking villagers who sat upon blankets and the dirty floor in makeshift hovels begged them for alms and aid as quickly as they could walk in the door. The Revered Mother made her rounds, blessing the poor and the sick and the young and old in a routine fashion, though not, Solena believed, without heart. The scene had left her shaken.

  The seven of their party, and also the bann, sat on wooden benches in the back of the Chantry, and took the news that only kept on coming. Leliana’s eyes were sad and worried. Sten remained like stone. Morrigan leaned her head upon a wall. Bodahn and Sandal held none of their cheery disposition. But Alistair was the worst, his hands covering his face as he hunched over into a ball. Solena bit at her thumbnail, and glanced over at him as often as she was able without appearing a worried wreck.

  “How…” came Alistair’s muffled and strained voice. “How did this happen?”

  “Truly, I could not say. All I know of the goings-on in the castle was contained in the letter I received from Isolde, once all of this started. I have had no communication with anyone inside since. And I am truly sorry, Alistair, I wish I had more to give you. But, and I am sorry to say this so bluntly, what is happening up on that rock is far from my primary concern. It is this village that needs my help now—and yours, if you are willing to give it.”

  “We have greater concerns than that of your village, surely you know this. Why is it you keep the truth from them, I wonder?” Morrigan asked, rather tactlessly, she thought.

  “These people are tired, hungry, and scared,” the bann bit back, clearly offended by her inquiry. “News of the Blight and the death of their king would crush them. I have to think of them, first. I must maintain morale as much as I can, which is why I ask your aid.”

  “Scared? Of what?” Solena asked. “These people look destitute. Why are so many out of their homes? What has happened here?”

  Bann Teagan shook his head; stared down at his hands. “I fear you would not believe me if I told you.”

  “You don’t seem to have a choice,” she told him.

  He laughed without humor. “You are right about that. From what I am told, trouble in the village started when the rest of it did, a month ago.”

  She glanced at Alistair. Her look must have clued the bann to what she was thinking. It was so bizarre to think on, when Ostagar felt like so many years ago, not just a moon’s cycle.

  “Yes, I know,” he said. “I don’t know how much of this could be coincidence, but I don’t dare think on it what with so much else going on. Since the day the castle shut its gates, every night has been a waking terror for these people. It is some…some _curse_. It must be. It…” he struggled with the words. “The living dead wake each night in that castle and they crawl down the rock. They rise from the lake, and they attack the town in force.”

  Perhaps the bann waited for signs of their disbelief, but none came. 

  “Every night the militia has done what they can while the rest hide in the Chantry, but we have lost many, and I do not know how long this can last.”

  “So why send your knights away, then? It seems terribly counter-productive of you.” said Morrigan.

  “Ha! That is hardly the truth. I have sent one, Ser Donall, and only because he so wished it, out of his devotion to the arl. Isolde sent the rest, weeks ago. It is a fruitless quest borne of a woman’s love, I fear—a desperate search for her husband’s cure. So far, they have yielded nothing.  Redcliffe continues to receive no word from Denerim—from the knights, or the queen. That is how I have managed to keep the news from the village.”

  “Don’t you find that strange?” Solena asked.

  “Less and less with each day—but more on that later. If you made a stand with these people, fought back the dead alongside them, perhaps it would make a difference. This village could use that kind of hope. I know these people, they would take it and they would run with it. Please, I beg of you.”

  The bann who might have been handsome was tired. Heavy bags soured his kind green gaze, and his furrowed brow cast a heavy shadow. Golden-brown hair hung in his eyes. Alistair seemed to have little sympathy for his pleas.

  “You ask me this,” he started, raising his head minutely. “When he lays up there _dying_?”

  “He is my brother, Alistair. No one’s heart aches for him more than I.”

  “Oh, I doubt that.”

  “What would you have me do? The dead guard the castle. Even if I wanted to abandon these people in favor of your quest, I could not. Help these people and I will do for you what I can.”

  “We’ll help,” Solena agreed, straightening her back. Alistair made not a sound.

  “I cannot thank you enough. I - ”

  “Bann Teagan,” the Revered Mother appeared in the doorway, a haggard look on her face. “It’s Lia. The baby, it will come soon. I fear I do not have enough sisters to aid her.”

  Teagan stood at once. “Murdock, the town’s mayor, can speak with you further. Ser Perth, as well. He is one of our only remaining knights. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I must tend to our own.”

  Leliana perked up. “I can help, too, with the birth. If I am needed. I am affirmed.”

  “Maker bless you, child,” the Mother said. “We will take whatever help we can get. Come, come.”

  The Mother ushered Leliana out and Teagan followed, and the rest of them sat in a terrible silence that was broken, eventually, by Morrigan.

  “Will we next start rescuing kittens from trees, then?”

  Solena stood and faced her. “These people need help or they will die. But I suppose your plan is better?”

  “I would suggest abandoning the plan entirely, and moving on to track down these treaties you seem so fond of. We tried for your Arl Eamon, and it seems yet doubtful that he will wake before the war is even over. We leave, and we do not look back.”

  “We can’t leave,” Solena told her, and she tried to communicate all she could with only the tone of her voice, what with Alistair still hunched over beside her. “That’s final.”

  Morrigan scoffed, a reaction she had more or less expected. 

  “Bodahn, Sandal. You’ll be best suited here. See if the Bann or the Mother need any extra hands.”

  “Certainly, ma’am. We’ll do our best,” Bodahn said agreeably. The two hopped off of their stools.

  “Sten,” she directed. The Qunari did not scare her, and she cared little for what Alistair thought of him. To not engage with him would be the worst thing she could do. He raised his head slightly to acknowledge her. “Weapons. These people need them - lots of them. Find the blacksmith, and take inventory. Get him to make more than he’ll want to. Help him as best you can.”

  Alistair stood behind her, wobbly on two feet. His eyes were bloodshot. “I should go with him. No offense, big man. But a Qunari on his own, walking around making demands, it might scare the locals. We don’t need that.”

  “No offense is taken,” Sten answered.

  “Alistair, you should - ” Solena started.

  “I _want_ to go with him.” Alistair interrupted. 

  She nodded, taking her bottom lip between her teeth and biting down. She moved closer to him, and closer still. Closer than she could ever remember being. She looked up at him with pity in her eyes. “We’re going to do everything we can for these people, Alistair. And for him.”

  He looked at her. She thought he might cry. He did not thank her, but he seemed to nod. And so she stepped back.

  “Morrigan and I will take care of everything else. We’ll make our rounds, see what needs doing.”

  She did not respond, and that was fine.

  “Consider it done.” Sten told her, and his hulking form rose from the bench which she had previously worried might snap at the weight of him, and exited the room with Alistair close behind.

  She placed her hands upon her hips and idly surveyed the room, sighing. She did not look to the corner where Morrigan sat. 

  “I know very well of the _sentimental_ value Alistair places on this fool’s errand. You do not need to remind me,” Morrigan spoke. Solena’s eyes searched her face, begging for her cooperation.

  “Then, please. Let’s just get this done.”

  “That does not mean I see the point in it.”

  “If he can’t fix this, it will ruin him. And if, Maker forbid, you can’t bring yourself to care about that, Arl Eamon will be a powerful ally. One we can’t afford to squander now, while there’s still a chance he’s even alive. The Teyrn will make sure we don’t get far without political backing.”

  Morrigan raised a dark brow. “You have thought this through, I see.”

  “Is that such a surprise to you?”

  “I simply believed it was out of childish altruism and the pink that your cheeks turn when that _fool_ enters a room that you agreed to do this. Your foresight is… impressive.”

  Solena narrowed her eyes at the crude description of herself that could not have sounded any farther from the truth she knew. Did she truly think of her as some wistful do-gooder that joined the Wardens with lofty ideals and naïve preconceptions? Where had that come from, she wondered, when Alistair thought her to be some selfish shrew, using her chance conscription as an easy self-preservation tactic. Perhaps she had. Of course she had. But it wasn’t so chance, and it wasn’t so easy. Survival. Like a castle in the sand, cobbled together. She could only work with what she had.

  “Hardly. It’s practical.”

  “Perhaps,” Morrigan pondered. “Perhaps I was wrong about you. Though it is rather difficult for me to imagine they teach practicality, along with politics and intrigue in that Tower of yours.”

  “They don’t teach it, no.”

  Morrigan considered her for a moment with an upturned nose and contemplative eyes. “Well, then.” She dusted off her skirt as she stood. “Let us get underway while there is still daylight ahead of us, yes?”

~~~

  When they rode into Redcliffe the sun was nearly at its highest, and before they knew it, it had sunk lower and lower. Once it became clear that the town needed, truly, days of work before it was near ready to push back against the onslaught, Alistair’s disposition turned far more sour. He was not wrong; the militia was a sorry sight, lined up in front of the Chantry at the behest of Murdock, who led them. All were men who had lost a brother; a wife. One had lost a child. But he still fought, and that seemed to have given Alistair something to work with. Quietly, he went to find any able men and women who could carry a weapon, and convince them to join the cause. Solena thought that unlikely. Many were petrified, looking at their young children and sickly parents, and expressing fear at what should happen if they could not return to them. They had no answers to give, and that was the hardest part of all. Some refused and none could blame them. Most, surprisingly, did not. 

  Of course, it was still not enough, even after knocking on every door and scouring the Chantry. They were less than seventy strong, and at the start, Alistair had to train them with sad looking weapons carved from wood. Sten and Alistair had reported earlier that the blacksmith had locked himself in his home, drunk and raving about a daughter - a handmaiden to the arlessa, a young, plain-looking thing and all the old man had left, still up in the castle where none would go to search for her. He had not accepted Alistair’s “words worth shit”, as he called them, to find and retrieve her if he was able. So Solena swore a vow, something convincing that might tumble easily from a Warden’s lips, and the gruff man was happy enough, it seemed, to open his door and make the weapons Sten had asked for. 

  Alistair had been skeptical of her intentions, and perhaps miffed that the man had preferred her word to his wholly more honest one. They shared the knowledge that the poor thing could just as well be dead; that she were no more special than the countless other handmaids and servants with patient loved ones who waited in the town, but they needed the weapons now. An old blacksmith’s wrath was something they could deal with later. 

  Ser Perth asked only for the Maker’s blessing to be placed upon himself and the few remaining knights of his company, and they would steel themselves and be ready. It was a request that the Mother was happy to accommodate after the birth was over. Solena and Morrigan returned to the Chantry later in the day, as the sun threatened to turn pink. They had spent the past hour setting up defenses. Sweat formed in thin droplets on her brow, arms and neck, and she longed for a warm bath. In the Tower, the alchemists made bath salts of all scents and colors, and others made delightful, frothy bubbles upon which one could blow and watch as they danced in the air and popped on the ceiling. As a child she had stacked hers as high as she could atop her head. Every bath became a competition - a test to see if she could stack the rose-colored bubbles taller than the last time. She used them less as she grew, opting for the soothing salts instead, smelling of rosewater and chamomile. Though one could never soak too long before another apprentice or ten pounded on the wall. It was not all perfect. 

  She did not envy the bann, of course. He emerged from behind a screen wearing an apron and gloves, splotched with blood. Some had found its way onto his fine clothes. Out of her periphery, she saw an exhausted Leliana, sitting on a bench and dozing off against the wall behind her. Morrigan went to find some water to splash on her face. 

  “What sort of Bann,” Solena started as she approached the man, “gets his pretty finery ruined delivering children and aiding the sick?”

  He laughed at that, peeling off his gloves. “Hopefully a very good one.”

  “Did it go smoothly?”

  “Quite. The mother is resting now. The babe, however - ” he was interrupted by a piercing scream.     “The sisters are doing their best.”

  She gestured to the screen. “May I?”

  The corner of his mouth rose in amusement. “Be my guest.”

  The babe was wrapped in a blanket that looked to be sewn hastily together from the sisters’ old robes. A sister, sat on the ground, cradled the child and shushed at it, to no avail. She watched Solena enter with the bann close behind and clearly saw her opportunity. 

  “Boy or girl?” Solena asked quietly as the child was placed into her waiting arms.

  “A girl.” The bann smiled.

  The only babes in the Tower were those that had been given to the Chantry. Or were taken. She knew of mages that had…accidents. She had volunteered twice to help the sisters in caring for the newborns in the small nursery the Tower kept. There were maybe five children there at the time, and three had grown out of cribs. The newborns cried so. Much like this one. She did not mind. She imagined she would have done the same, a babe in a horrid place like that. Kinloch Hold was no place for children. She supposed that Redcliffe Chantry, in this state, was no fairytale either.

  This little one was smaller than those she had held before, and so very red. She cradled her head and rocked her back and forth as she swayed. A hum came from her throat that sounded something like a song she remembered. The words to the lullaby had left her (something with _sorrow_ , perhaps), and besides, she could not recall the last time she had sung. It seemed it was enough. The child’s cries turned to coos and soon it was quiet, softly asleep against her shoulder. The sisters looked at her as if she had performed a miracle. The bann gazed upon her from the doorway with a look that was not at all difficult to place.

  She handed off the sleeping little one reluctantly back to the sister who gave her a warm smile in thanks. She and the bann exited the room, walking back into the hall.

  “You are remarkable,” he claimed. “Not a sister here has been able to quiet the child, not even your friend.”

  She smiled softly and pushed a loose strand behind her ear. The bann seemed hesitant to speak again. “Alistair is very fortunate to have you. There are not many that would go to such lengths for friend or comrade.”

  She nodded. “This means something to him. I want to see it through.” He seemed pleased with her answer.

  “These people are fortunate to have _you_ ,” she countered. “They aren’t even your own.”

  He smiled and shook his head at that, looking at his feet and seeming to disappear to another place, and time. “Well, nor are they yours,” he said. “And yet.” He raised his eyes to her.

  She cleared her throat, and soon Alistair’s footsteps approached in the hall.

  “The defenses are ready,” he announced. “And the troops are ready as they’ll ever be, I expect. They’re green, but they’ve got heart and a will to live through this. They’ll do.” He nodded his head firmly in assurance. 

  “I cannot thank you enough, Alistair. Truly,” the bann said. Alistair seemed to look between them expectantly. The bann clapped his hands together after a quiet, uncertain moment hung in the air. “You must be tired, after a long day’s work. Try the inn on the hill. Let the bartend know your rooms and drinks are my compliments.”

  “That’s very kind, you don’t have to - ” she began. He held up his hand in protest.

  “Please, I insist. It is the least I could do. We should all get some rest before tonight, I reckon.”

~~~

  Anders had given her ale once. He, Jowan and Niall had sat in a quiet, dimly lit corridor and passed the flask around, and he had offered. Maker knows how he had smuggled it in - perhaps it was for the better that she had not asked. It tasted like swill. The three boys had laughed up a fit as she had coughed and spat and handed it back to them in disgust.

  Sitting in the booth in the tavern across from Alistair, she tipped back her mug of the stuff and swallowed in generous, bitter gulps. He looked upon her through hooded eyes, faintly entertained, clutching his flagon on the table in one hand. He shook his head. 

  The dark and dirty alcoves Jowan and his friends oft disappeared to, the ones which, to her misfortune she would sometimes stumble across, they were not so different from this inn. The air was dry and stale and the corners were riddled with cobwebs. The place was mostly empty, save for a few of the militia on the opposite side of the bar and a traveler near the door. A spare few torches hung upon the wall, casting a focused glow that did not reach the bar at the room’s center. Orange light shone on only the right half of Alistair’s face, rendering him unreadable. 

  “I trained a boy of ten today,” he said, drunk.

  She had nothing to give in response.

  “Begged me to,” he explained, answering a question left unsaid. “No parents. Young sister. Wanted to protect her.”

  “You did the right thing,” she offered.

  “War is no place for a child,” he spat. He glared at her accusingly.

  She shrugged lightly, and avoided his gaze. She was not trying to start something now. “Maybe not. He was scared. Perhaps now he is less so.”

  “Then I have trained and armed a bloody halfwit. These people should be soiling their trousers. I would be.”

  The barmaid glanced in their direction. The militia men grew quiet. Solena put a hand on his forearm and leaned forward. “Alistair, lower your voice.”

  “What? So that the kitchen mice don’t hear me?”

  “Alistair - ” 

  The door of the inn swung open, and Leliana stepped through. She glanced once around the place. She headed to the bar.

  “Bann Teagan seems hopeful,” Solena assured him. “I think these people may surprise you, he has great faith in them.”

  “Oh, _The Bann Who Lost Rainesfere_? Don’t get your bloody hopes up.” He gave something between a scoff and a laugh. She frowned, not knowing to what he referred.

  “What?”

  “Oh, I shouldn’t be so surprised. They don’t write about him in the songs, do they? None of the books in your Tower regale the tale of the fine Fereldan lord who let his holdfast burn to the ground during the Occupation?” He seemed to be taking great enjoyment from this. 

  “I don’t understand.”

  “No, you wouldn’t, would you?” Her cheeks flushed hot with embarrassment. He mocked her now, and it hurt more than she would show him. “History is written by the victors, girl. You don’t know half as much as you think you do.”

  She stared into the bottom of her cup, looking for answers that she did not find. 

  Leliana slid into the booth, next to Alistair. She spoke in a calm, muted tone. “Don’t look. By the door, back to us. Fine leatherwork. Expensive scabbard. Tipping the barmaid.” 

  Solena followed her orders and did not turn. Alistair glanced out of his periphery and narrowed his eyes. 

  “So?”

  “Elf,” Leliana replied. Solena did not understand.

  Recognition flashed across Alistair’s face. He seemed to stiffen.

  “How do you want to handle this?” he asked her, gripping his sword below the table.

  Leliana took a steady, lengthy drink from her mug and plopped it back down on the table when she finished, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand.

  “Follow my lead. Ready?”

  “Yes.”

  They rose at once. Solena did not know if she should follow or remain seated, so she settled for watching them from the booth. At the sound of their movement she could see the elven traveler shift uncomfortably in his seat. He would have had little time to escape, though, before Leliana slammed him cheek-down on the table, her bicep pressed against his airway. The bar went silent.

  “You’re not a very _good_ spy, do you know that?” She asked, a sweet lilt to her voice.

  “Fuck! _Fuck!_ _Fucking hell, woman_!” he gasped for air. Leliana had been right, his leather armor was of beautiful make and his scabbard had gold detailing and was encrusted with jewels. He looked very clean, cleaner than she had been in a month, though his hair was haphazardly tied back and a bit disheveled. His long, pointed ears were unmistakable.

  Alistair rid him of his weapons. “Who sent you?” he asked. The man squirmed but Leliana was stronger than she looked, it seemed.

  “You’re fucking daft! I’m just a sellsword!” he choked.

  “A sellsword, hm?” Leliana teased. “I am curious then as to a sellsword’s business here in Redcliffe in the middle of wartime. I’m sure the bann would like to know as well.”

  “My contracts are - _ ach! _ ” Leliana pressed down harder. “ - none of your business!”

  Solena stood and approached the scene with caution. The other patrons, the militia men, shuffled out quietly.

  “Loghain sent you. Why?” Alistair pushed. Leliana grabbed one of his arms and twisted it sharply when the response was too delayed. The man cried out in pain.

  “Is this really necessary?” Solena asked. It seemed she was not heard.

  “ _Fuck you_ ,” the man spat. “I don’t have to - ”

  Quickly, Alistair’s dagger was drawn from the sheath on his thigh, and he placed it against the man’s crotch, very clearly threatening to stab down.

  “No, you don’t. But I’m willing to wager you’re fond of these, and would like to keep them.” The man was frozen. “Tell me what I want to know,” Alistair demanded again.

  “I never met him! Never…never saw no Loghain. It weren’t Loghain that sent me,” he frantically assured. “I only heard the name tossed around, is all.”

  “Then who?” Leliana spat.

  “I don’t know! Didn’t get a name. All your fucking _shemlen_ lords look the same.” Solena knew that word. It was elvish for ‘quick child’ _,_ but she never heard it used in the literal sense. It was a word used for humans. It was not a kind one. 

  “Must have not been a very smart man. You’re not who I would have chosen,” Leliana remarked.

  “Paid enough where I didn’t ask questions. Job weren’t hard. Just stay in Redcliffe, keep tabs on the arl. Report back if the situation changed.”

  “ _The arl_?” Alistair spoke up in shock. “And just how are you keeping tabs on him? From the bottom of a mug?”

  “Well I couldn’t get in the bleeding castle, now could I? Word travels fast enough. If the poison wore off the whole village would be up in arms about it.”

  The three of them shared a look, eyes wide. 

  “Poison?” Alistair managed. His eyes darkened. Bann Teagan had not told them that.

  “It were an inside job. I got nuthin’ to do with that. Some fuckin’ mage they hired, I dunno. Don’t know no details, please Sers.”

  Leliana looked at Alistair and gave a nod which he returned. She let go of the man’s neck and arm, and he took a deep breath, rubbing his throat and clearly wincing at the pain his arm now gave him.

  When Alistair moved towards him with his dagger in hand, Solena moved to protest but Leliana was faster. She grabbed his wrist.

  “ _No_.” 

  Alistair’s look was confusion muddled with anger. The man noticed the exchange and panicked. He backed closer to the door, but was blocked again by Alistair.

  “Are you mad?” Alistair asked her. “He reports to Loghain, albeit indirectly. We can’t - ”

  “We can, and we shall.” Leliana insisted. “We tie him up, keep a watch on him, do what we need to. Come night, put his sword back in his hand and let him fight. But if we kill him we are no better than Loghain.”

  Alistair grimaced, and jerked the elven man’s wrists so he could hold them tightly behind his back. The spy winced at the movement, and so did Solena, but they both kept quiet. The elf knew when she was beat, and Solena knew to pick her battles.

  “Yes, we are,” Alistair responded, definitively.

  Neither she nor Leliana knew what to say. They shared a glance.

  “Get some rope or twine from the bartend. I’ll tie him up out back.” Alistair huffed. Leliana nodded and did as he bid her. Solena, her head now paining her, moved to go upstairs to their room and lie down.

~~~

  The chirps of the crickets soothed her, as did the coolness of her pillow and the soft breeze that the window let in. Battle had not started yet. She still had these few moments for her own, before steel clashed and the men she had met and shared smiles with that day turned to animals. She left her eyes open, though she had taken her tea.  Sometimes, when she closed them, there were flashes of Ostagar. And if she drifted asleep, a different demon would plague her. Still, she could not discern which was worse. 

  She did not know what she must have once thought war was. The Tower had made a stupid girl of her. Alistair had made her see that. Duncan had. She was a woman now, blooded in more ways than one. War would not break her.

  Leliana sat by the door to their room, relaxed against the wall, her shortbow resting in her hands. It was a cheap thing - Bodahn had mentioned having one in his stores and Leliana perked up at his words. Bodahn had expressed interest in finding her a nicer one, but the sister had insisted it suited her fine. Since then, Leliana had carried the bow with a fierce sense of possession. It was a thing unique to those outside the Tower, certainly, the attachment people had to _things_. Leliana with her bow, Alistair with whatever it was he fumbled with in his pack when he thought she wasn’t looking, and what seemed to be the _whole bloody world_ with those treaties. Pieces of ruined parchment, signed ages ago by long dead men - men far too dead to tell anyone if they would have rather _not_ signed such documents. Words were wind. It amazed her, the faith people in this new world still kept in them.

  The room - drab, with holes in the roof and a draft running through it - was nothing like the well-kept chambers they had given her in the Tower, but she could not find it in herself to care. If she had her choice, she would still be on a blanket under the stars, the campfire warming her feet. 

  Sunset had come and nearly gone. Morrigan was sound asleep on the floor, where she had gathered many blankets and a pillow, and her pretty black tresses peeked out from just beyond the foot of the bed. Bodahn and Sandal remained in the chantry with the young, old and sick, as they had been too busy helping during the day to train. Sten, clearly preferring silence and solitude, guarded the spy. Half an hour ago Alistair had said that he needed some air and none dared refuse him. He had not returned.

  “What was that back there?” she asked Leliana from where she lay on the bed. Over the covers, and still in her same armored robes, as she would not dare get too comfortable. They both had hooded, tired eyes and had gotten only a little rest.

  Leliana gave her a lazy upturned smile. “ No one is without worth. Whoever you are, whatever your mistakes. All life is precious in the Maker’s eyes.” It was something she had said many times before, Solena could tell.

  “I didn’t mean when you stopped Alistair. I meant before.”

  Leliana’s smile faded slightly, and she looked strangely. Distant, almost. “I did what needed to be done. I take no great pleasure in it. Our purpose is too great to take risks.”

  “Like letting him live?”

  “He will not live, sweet girl,” said Leliana. Solena furrowed her brow. “It is likely he will not survive the night. But we don’t need such blood on our hands, weighing us down. Alistair does not need it.”

  Solena accepted her justification with some ease. She was right, after all, though the woman seemed to easily contradict herself. Alistair’s mind was troubled, anyone could see it. It was reassuring to know she was not the only one who worried after him. He was a good man. She knew too well when a good man became something else. She had seen it in his eyes today. He needed to be more than just another good man.

  “How did you know that man was a spy?” She asked, curious. She thought she knew, now that it was all said and done. But the sister’s conviction had been strange to her. Solena had known many elven mages in the Circle. The elves had mingled with the humans very easily, so much so that she had barely taken notice. She supposed life was not so simple outside the confined walls of a prison.

  She had her answer when Leliana’s smile turned sad. “Take a bit of advice. You haven’t been outside the Tower long, but you’re a bright girl. Intuitive, intelligent. I know a kindred spirit when I see one. Out here, the rules may be different, but people are just the same.” All at once, the sister’s face became a shroud. “Don’t ever let your guard down. Men and women take what they can. Make sure you take it first.”

  Her words took Solena to the high-stakes courts of Orlais she had so long read about in songs, where heroines with such drive and ruthlessness would flourish. She did not think of the sister as ruthless, but she certainly seemed driven. Every great Empress that ever was had the same qualities: fearless; beautiful; cutthroat. “You’re…from Orlais, aren’t you?”

  Leliana relaxed. “My mother was Orlesian. My father, Fereldan.” She paused. “I consider myself Fereldan.” 

  “But, you did grow up there?”

  “Is that so obvious?” Leliana laughed. “Yes, I grew up there.”

  “Why did you leave?”

  She considered the question. “Change. What I wanted…changed. So I followed where it took me. I have never regretted it.” Solena understood as well as anyone. For so long as a girl, she thought she had only wanted to impress her professors, the First Enchanter especially. Now that she was a woman, all she wanted to do was set fire to who she once was and watch her burn. She had been a mouse in a labyrinth for so many years, while the Circle dangled a piece of cheese at the end and called it her ‘great potential’. But the labyrinth was something they built - no better than a cage. It wasn’t her. It had never been her. They had only tricked her into believing that.

  Solena shook her head. Leliana’s secrets were her own. “I’m sorry for prying, I just…You’re not like the sisters I knew from the Circle.”

  Leliana laughed at that, too. “No, I would reckon I am not. They did not like me very much at the Chantry. No more, I expect, than the Circle cared for you. Girls with bright heads on their shoulders and fresh new ideas are never typically received well.”

  “How can you know that about me?” Solena asked.

  “You made it out of there. That’s all I need to know.”

  Shouting heard from beyond their window ended the conversation and arose their suspicion. The bells of the Chantry began to toll, and with each chime the shouting in the night grew louder. Leliana stood and grabbed her quiver. Morrigan woke with a start and seemed to understand. Solena picked up their two staves from where they rested against the far wall and handed Morrigan hers. She accepted it with a firm nod. 

  Alistair appeared in the open window, fiercely composed. 

  “Go to the windmill on the hill, all of you, find Ser Perth! He’s got a garrison there of twenty good men. Some of the dead will likely attack from the bridge, so we need someone watching our back. You’ll be of most use there.”

  “Where will you be?” Solena shouted over the noise.

  “In the town center, with Teagan and Murdock and the rest of the men. I spent the day training them, I won’t abandon them now. When the dead come from the lake, we’re like to get the brunt of the attack. With any luck, we’ll make it through this.”

  Instinctively now, her eyes drank up every detail of his face - memorized every plane and groove, appraised each expression. There was little difference here from the way he had held himself at Ostagar, transitioning into battle with such ease and naturalness. It unnerved her to think on it. War had been a part of his life, that much was clear. With what, she knew not, but he wore it on his sleeve shamelessly. 

  Hadn’t it been a part of hers, as well, before Ostagar, before the Wardens? She had battled her whole life. Would Alistair have survived a day in Kinloch Hold? Perhaps not. In one way at least, she was made of stronger stuff.

  She committed his eyes to her memory, warm and honeyed. He would survive the night, she knew. Men with death wishes did not often get what they desired.

  “Be careful,” she said, in spite of her certainty.

  He returned her sentiment quickly and gruffly, and disappeared back into the darkened village, out of sight. A thick, unnatural fog hovered just above the ground and the air was still. There was a low whistle in the air that sang a dark, awful tune. A chill ran up her arms and set the hairs of her skin on end. When she exhaled, she could see evidence of her breath in front of her. Their nights in the Hinterlands had never been this cold.

  Morrigan stared out the window with a grave look on her face. “Powerful magic is at work tonight. Your bann was right on that count.”

  The shouting turned to screaming and Solena looked up to the high stone bridge that connected the town to the cliff. A darkness seemed to have overtaken it, and in the darkness there was movement that was less than human. That darkness chilled the air and moved the angry clouds above. It was like the grim old wives’ tales the older apprentices used to whisper in the children’s ears before bed. They had frightened her so as a girl. But she had faced spawn, and they had been nothing to her after the first kill. This would be nothing too, and the night would pass.

  Solena tried to shut the window quickly and pushed it in tight, her fingers trembling, betraying her mind as she fumbled with the latch.

  Then, the ground shook with the first strike of thunder, and then came the bright light. Morrigan startled beside her, then shook it off and turned away. The clouds had turned to pouring rain which crashed against the window in fury. Solena stared out, still all the while, her lips parted in awe. _They mean for this to frighten me_ , she thought as lightning struck again, rattling the glass. _The beasts can think again. I am the storm._


	18. Alistair IV

# Alistair

Mud splashed beneath his boots as the rain poured in force and fell in his eyes. He strode at an angry pace, his blade grasped firmly at his side. _Let her hate me_ , he begged. _Let her despise me._ _Give me a reason to hate her too._ Oh, he saw how she had looked at him, after he had taken that squawking shit outside and beaten him to a quivering, pissing mess, and tied him to that post. Two impossible eyes of ice, with that _infuriating_ blank gaze. Like she were holding up her own stupid, warped mirror, trying to forcibly hold him in place and look back at the reflection; trying to make him care what she thought of him, when he _didn’t_. Likely she thought he was no better than that templar monster she mumbled over in her sleep. Well, she was nothing special, nor was the scrutiny she gave him. Was there anyone in his life who had not dissected his every move, only to end in that same relentless cycle of _unsurprised_ and _disappointed_?

  Yes. One. And after all those years, those sacrifices he had made for the boy he loved like a son, where had Alistair been in his final moments? He had been Duncan’s last disappointment. Another gone, for the likes of him.

  Whatever Solena thought, it was not just her he seethed at. It was the both of them - she and the sister, standing aloof on their own moral high grounds. The sister had stopped him once before, too, from finishing Loghain’s men who had accosted them in the Lothering tavern. Well, she may have sweet-talked the others, but she couldn’t bloody fool him. When she had caught up with their party on horseback later that same night outside Lothering, he had seen her washing the blood from her dagger in the lake. ‘ _No better than Loghain’_ - pah! That woman could stew in her delusions all she liked. He knew the man that he was, and he was starting to know her, too.

  And now, thanks to her, that spying sack of shit was fighting by their side, sharpened sword in hand. It sickened him to think on it. He was grateful to Sten for keeping watch over the weasel, and being the one thing likely standing between Solena and an opened throat.

  The village center outside the Chantry stank of fear and wet dung, and every man, woman - and Maker save him, _child_ - that was armed and gathered looked a scared, sorry sight. But it was his own damned mouth that got him into this mess by promising Teagan that the night would be theirs. And in no surprising turn of events, he would fight Teagan’s own bloody battles for him.

  The pampered ponce was there all right, out in the open with the rest of the militia, though he had a bloody squire strapping his armor on for him.

  Alistair stormed up and shoved the boy aside. _Boy_. He might have been his age, though he looked a whelp. “That’s enough. Our bann is a man grown, I’m sure he can dress himself.”

  “Alistair, what in the Maker’s name - ” Teagan started.

  “Yes, well, it’ll be my name you’ll be swearing to when I’ve won your battle for you. What were you thinking, having your squire braid your hair and kiss your feet in front of these men? You think that was some inspiring sight? Aren’t you supposed to be _the_ _man of the people_?”

  Teagan bristled at him at first, but Alistair saw that his words had struck the right nerve. He struggled to remember a time when Teagan had ever once listened to him as he did now.

  “You are right, of course. It is only…it’s been many years.” The bann admitted, fumbling helplessly with the final latches. Alistair huffed and finished the job for him, if only to get it done quicker. Perhaps then it would look like merely a brotherly gesture.

  “And how many years is that, exactly?” he asked, smacking the bann’s chestplate with a smirk. The pretty lord was a jouster, not a swordsman. And he had been chasing his dreams of fame and glory at the Grand Tourney in Starkhaven while Orlesian mages sacked his holdfast - while Eamon and their late father fought a war without him. He knew less about war than this sorry militia. Some of the older ones had at least been in Redcliffe to watch as Florian burned their lands and tortured their parents. All while Teagan had been eating grapes out of some Marcher woman’s hands.

  Anger began to brew just beneath the bann’s skin, showing through as redness. “The night will be long, Alistair. Let us not start this now.”

  “Well,” said Alistair. “It will be long, or it will be very short.”

  He turned to look at the crowd. Murdock, the bearded mayor, put weapons and the armor they had to spare into shaking hands. Admittedly, he did not know most of these people. It had been many years since he had left Redcliffe and never looked back, and even when he was here, it was upon the cliff where he had spent most of his time. Eamon couldn’t stop him sneaking out every now and then to see the sights of the village and return under the setting sun, but the boys he had ran and played with on the shore had all grown to men, like he had, and their faces were like to be unrecognizable to him now. 

  Murdock approached. He was a gruff, large and imposing man who carried a demeanor that Teagan did not. His hands were rough and well-calloused and his armor had wear on it.  This man had seen each and every battle Redcliffe had fought against the dead, and likely more besides. He had not been mayor when Alistair had lived on the cliff. He was like to have remembered him.

  “Your plan is in place, Ser, just as you said. May it carry us through the night,” he told him. “Now, if you’ll allow it, milords, I’d like to say a few words to these people,” Alistair nodded, and did not correct him on the ‘ _lord_ ’ part. It was better this way, anyhow. Alistair had not prepared a speech, nor was he good at them.

  Over their shoulders and across the dark, quiet, scrap wood roofs, the lake stirred. The three men eyed it nervously. Time was not on their side.

  “May I…start out?” Teagan pressed. “I feel these people should hear more from me than silence.” Alistair might have strangled him. Murdock seemed to _humph_ an agreement, though also seemed to be growing rightfully impatient.

  “Hear me!” Teagan turned and shouted, his voice wavered though he doubted the men noticed. “Redcliffe has not been my home, all you know this. It is not the Wardens’ home. But they have fought for it all the same, as have I!”

  _Prick_. It had been Alistair’s home. How easy that was for Teagan to forget, when it suited him. Could Eamon have forgotten too?

__ “All of you have welcomed me, and them, with open arms and hearts, and - ” 

  “Because this is our home!” boomed Murdock, as he raised his hand axe high above his head. Every person gathered stood straight up at that, snapped out of their daze from Teagan’s prattling. Poor idiot couldn’t even see it. “And those dead sons of ‘ores mean to take it from us! From our sons and daughters, wives and husbands! From our children’s children and their children after!”

  At that moment, noises came from the lake. The creaking and clicking of bones, and what could have been the snarling of rabid animals. Far off in the distance, an unmistakable hand shot up from the deep. Alistair blinked, startled.

  “Let’s go kill the fuckers!” Murdock shouted with a final huzzah, and the crowd roared its approval, drawing their swords and punching them high into the air. Teagan swallowed back his pride.

  Amidst the noise, the corpses began to rise from the lake and tumble out onto the shore. Alistair watched them. They were not like the spawn, as Alistair had thought they very well might be. The spawn were easy to understand. They were whole, flesh and blood, and when you stuck them they injured and died. These were mostly rotted bones, with occasional shreds of decaying flesh hanging off in tatters, with holes for eyes and echoing screeches. They did not move like people or animals. They moved jarringly and many tripped over themselves, falling atop one another as they clamored from the lake onto the sand. 

  When maybe seventy of the things had fallen upon the shores of Lake Calenhad, there was still and quiet when, for only a moment, the men could hope that they might not move again. They did, of course, and their skeleton fingers began to gradually claw and grab at the wet sand, hoping to push themselves up against the force of the rain and each other. One stood, then another, then five more, then ten, and then all of them had risen and far more still rose from the lake behind the rest. One at the front looked at Alistair, and screamed. The sound deafened every other. 

  Then, they charged.

  “Stand your ground!” Alistair shouted behind him as he poised himself. “Steel yourselves!”

  Alistair eyed the ground a hundred yards ahead. “Nock!” he yelled, as the dead neared close to the mark. The archers, standing beneath roofs just ahead of them, aimed their arrows of flame for the rum that had trickled slowly out of the barrels they had stacked in three places on the outset of the village. Alistair had found them in the cellar of a recently abandoned pub on the shore. Fifty of them.

  “Loose!” 

  Three arrows pierced the air and stuck themselves in the ground. The rum caught flame, and it was mere moments before the fire trickled to the barrels, and their explosion rang through the night, creating a light that was near blinding. The flame consumed most of the dead on the front lines and cast a glow of orange on the buildings. The sight looked heavenly. Awe decorated the faces of the militia as the corpses screeched and burned and fell, though Alistair knew the fight was far from over.

  He glanced up and to the left, upon the rise where the windmill sat. Faintly, there were shouts and the sounds of a battle, but little else could be seen or heard. The fog had spread from the bridge to reach there, too. Something stuck in his throat and choked at his heart. Whatever it was, he pried it off.

  Back on the ground, the fire had died down a bit. A straggler corpse, aflame and noisy, ran panicked towards the center of town, and Alistair walked ahead to meet it with steel. He dislodged its head from its spine and forced it to the ground with two deft strokes. Then, ahead of the group and past where the torchlight fell, he listened.

  He did not have to listen long. As if on cue, fifty more rose from the lake, this time crossing onto the shore with ease, their snarls as loud as ever.

  “Shields! Shields!” Alistair yelled. “Make a wall!”

  “More from the lake!” Murdock echoed back. “Shields - ”

  He could not finish, for they were all stunned into silence. From the bridge leagues high above the water, the dead fell. They fell tens at a time, and soon what must have been over a hundred corpses dove into the lake. One by one, they stood, and began walking.

  They had diverted, he realized, once they had heard the explosion. _They mean to focus their force here, and abandon the windmill_. He glanced upwards. He saw what she had done that night atop the Tower of Ishal. They needed her. They needed that firepower.

  He ran back to the garrison, and grabbed Teagan’s squire by his shoulder. “Run! To the windmill! Tell Ser Perth or whoever’s left alive that we need every man and woman he’s got down here now! Go!” The boy nodded frantically and sprinted off. Alistair stood in line with his men.

  The dead were upon them before the fire was done dissipating, bones crashing on their wall of shields like a tidal wave. They had no weapons, only brute force and bony claws. Alistair had thought their shields might survive the onslaught, but he saw quickly that it was not enough. Their spears took out many of the dead, but three, four, sometimes five of the skeletons would tackle a man with such fierceness that he lost his footing, and once he hit the ground they would tear his skin to shreds. Soon, their wall had weak points. It would fall before she made it down here. He wondered what would be left of them when she did.

  The wall they had formed was quickly abandoned when the dead began to pile so high that they could simply climb over it. At last, over the screams and the snarls, steel began to meet bone. The militia fought well, but they were not soldiers, and often the dead were too strong for them to repel. 

  They were inevitably pushed into the very center of town, nearly every man back to back with another as they fought off the horde. Murdock held his own against three of the things, his axe flying crashing through the air and hacking the corpses to pieces, all while Teagan stood next to him and looked a sorry sight, swinging his blade not unlike a child with a wooden sword. A man fell next to the bann and was ripped apart by the dead that climbed atop him. Blood splattered onto the bann’s shiny armor, and he was frozen to the spot. Alistair put the corpses to the sword, and put the poor man with blood spurting out of his neck out of his misery. He had no time to give Teagan the thrashing that he wanted to. When Alistair turned, lightning crashed into a corpse’s head, inches from his own.

  Solena stood on the rise, hands crackling, looking like some heavenly thing, and Morrigan had already joined the fray, wrestling with a corpse over her staff. She kicked the thing back a good few yards and blasted it with arcane power. The sister leapt from the rise and rolled to the ground, shooting from her bow as she landed. Sten charged in with a powerful yell, and with a long swipe of his battleaxe, shortened four corpses by half. He cut through the horde and the beasts swarmed him, and for a brief moment Alistair thought that the giant might fall, but he only hacked and hacked. He raised one of the things up by the skull and swung it around him, knocking down a handful of the corpses that had him surrounded.

  “Fight!” He shouted above the noise. “Fight! Fight for your home! Fight for what’s yours!” The men joined him in a resolute cry and pushed forward. 

  Strings of lightning crashed on the ground, sending corpses flying in explosions that shook the ground of battle. Alistair ran between them, cutting down the dead with shield and sword. 

  Men fell, but so did the dead. There were worse trades. After he had cleared perhaps twenty dead and a clearing had formed around him, Alistair turned and watched the fire rage on the rooftops. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Murdock overtaken by a crowd, and he was too far to save. Solena blasted the things off of the mayor, but even then he did not stand back up. The rest of the fight tapered down. No more dead came from the lake. They all lay at his feet.

~~~

  The Chantry bells rang once. Twice. A third. Morning birds joined in their song, along with the crows. Bury our loved ones and burn the rest, Teagan had said. Morrigan had agreed. She said the magic was foul and dark and was uncertain if the dead would only rise again come morn. Alistair walked the field and helped the men - those that were left - to sort the corpses. The rest dug graves. There were tears and loud weeping. The village was small, and the bodies that the men lifted and threw into carts while the women watched were no strangers. Alistair only wished he were strong enough to do the deed by himself. These people had suffered enough. .

  Murdock had fought bravely and well, and the sight of his corpse, ripped to shreds, both pained Alistair and unsettled his stomach. He had not eaten breakfast, so his heaving was dry. With gloved hands and a kerchief around his mouth and nose, he and another man picked up the large mayor’s torso. The legs came next.

  Atop the mayor’s corpse Sten placed another, and Alistair could not move. The corpse was small and the face he knew. He stared and stared, but the face would not change. Another was piled atop it, and he did not have to look at it any more. A man came by and placed a knowing hand on his shoulder. He had trained him. Spent the day telling him to keep his shield up and to grip the pommel firm and steady. He had ruffled his hair and told him that his parents would have been proud. It had not been enough. It was never enough. Nothing he ever did had ever been enough. He threw his gloves and handkerchief to the ground, and shrugged the man off him. 

  He sat on a stump on the outside of the field and watched the scene. He didn’t know what any of it had mattered, in the end. These people were no safer. If it was not the dead, it was the spawn that would get them in a month. If not the spawn, starvation and sickness and the cold. Without Eamon, their odds were worse. 

  What an ass he was. He had told her, sitting by the campfire, with a straight face and _conviction_ in his voice that their mission had purpose. That they could help the people in Lothering, in Redcliffe, and even in Denerim. She had been right to think him pretentious and idealistic. They were in over their head, and only she had had the perspective to see it. The Wardens had come to Redcliffe and had left only death in their wake. If Duncan were here, he would know what to do. What to say to these people, when they had just lost so much. How to look in their eyes and know that he was in some part to blame. Or maybe if Duncan were here, there would not have been death at all. Maybe this was on him. _His_ fuck-up, once again. 

  But Duncan had died just like that boy of ten had. Meaninglessly, and because of him.

  He grabbed his canteen and splashed water on his face; let it drip with the sweat. He smelled as the dead did, and likely looked twice as worse. 

  On the ground ahead of him, a strange shimmer caught his eye. He narrowed his eyes and stood, walking carefully to the source. It was another corpse, and as he grew closer he knew it, too. The sword was jewel-encrusted and the long ears had golden piercings. It came as a relief. If the fucker had lived, he did not think he could handle another row with the sister, or another look from _her._

  But the corpse was in near pristine condition, and that was unusual. It had no scratches or dismemberments or tears at the flesh. Alistair kicked it with his boot to flip it onto its back, and he seethed at what he saw. A clean red smile, from ear to ear. 

  Ahead, by the Chantry, the sister stood with Solena and Teagan, deep in conversation. Teagan looked almost happy, and Alistair could have screamed. _You have not won, idiot. There is nothing around you but loss._

  “Sten, do you have a handle on this?” he asked as he passed him. The giant nodded, and Alistair clapped him on the back. “Good man.” He crossed to the Chantry.

  “It might be best if I could help lead the women in prayer while the men finish,” he heard the sister say, sickeningly earnest, but appropriately sad. She played her part well, indeed. “Take their minds off of the bodies.”

  “No, no. We should start soon. I’ll say a few words, and we’ll bury our dead.” Teagan told her. “These people need resolution. They need to know their loved ones died with meaning.”

  Alistair clenched his fists tight. Solena, beside him, glanced down. She covered a fist with her hand.

  “Alistair, are we close?” Teagan turned and asked, oblivious to Alistair’s demeanor but seemingly not to the location of Solena’s hand. He pretended not to notice, or care.

  Alistair nodded stiffly.

  “Ah, good. Leliana, be a dear and fetch Mother Hannah. I’ll try and gather the masses.” The sister departed, and Teagan spared the two of them another glance before splitting in the other direction. 

  Alistair sighed, and did not move. He only clenched his jaw and stared ahead of him. Solena turned in toward him slightly, looking down at their feet. He could feel the warmth and the closeness of her through his armor.

  “You should wash,” she said, in a low murmur. There was no one that might overhear them, so perhaps she was frightened of him. “After this. Maybe rest. You’ve - ”

  “ _No._ ” Perhaps it was harsh. Perhaps he meant it to be. She did not press it, though. She understood that he would not budge.

  “I’ll speak to Teagan about making a push into the castle. We’ll finish what we started, Alistair.” 

  Slowly and sparsely, the weary and weeping villagers approached the Chantry. Many supported and held each other, just as Solena held him. 

  “Alistair,” she called softly. This time, he turned and met her gaze. Wetness blotted his sight, but he could still see the blue of her eyes, so, so close to him. “There is no one that could have done what you did for these people. And nothing more you could have done. Know that.”

  Her touch followed the length of his arm, and she was gone too soon, floating away towards the stairs that led up to the Chantry. Did she know what she had done? She had granted him absolution with a few pretty words and the touch of her hand. He knew he did not deserve it, but he could stand to hear her say it again, for the sound was sweet. 

  So sweet, it made him forget his dead. The boy in the cart, and his brothers on the field, and Duncan, and…perhaps that scared him more than anything.

  Teagan, the sister, Mother Hannah and the rest already stood upon the platform and Solena joined them, Alistair trailing close behind. When all had gathered and were quiet, the mother stepped forward. 

  “Let us bow our heads in remembrance of those who gave their lives in valiant defense of Redcliffe. Now they walk with He who is their Maker. Long may they know the peace of His love.”

  He closed his eyes as he bowed his head. Had Duncan believed in the Maker? He couldn’t remember now. Andrastianism was not popular in Rivain. Though Duncan had spent most of his life in Ferelden. Perhaps he…

  “So let it be,” Teagan said, after a while. It shook Alistair from his thoughts. What did it matter whether Duncan had believed in the Maker or a bloody cheese monster? Alistair could never bring himself to believe in anything. Attribute it to one bad experience at a monastery perhaps, or just sheer disillusionment. Ideas had always made sense to him. Right and wrong, being a part of something bigger than yourself, a soldier’s duty, that sort of thing. Anything more abstract than that and he ended up smelling horseshit. 

  He could try to comfort himself all he wanted. He did not truly believe that Duncan was anywhere but dead.

  Teagan stepped forward and thanked him for his valor and bravery, and although Solena smiled at him it still felt bitter. As the crowd moved to disperse, many of them grabbed for him, women kissed his cheek and men clasped his hands and shoulders, all of them thanking him with tears in their eyes. But he was a weak man, and he couldn’t meet their grateful stares.

  Alistair caught Teagan leaning in close and whispering in Solena’s ear before walking away, and he grimaced. If he wanted to court her, he could wait until the bloody war was over. Or just exercise some subtlety. 

  Solena was right, he was tired. Of death, of Teagan’s wandering gaze, of the sister’s lies, of fighting, of losing. The urge to retire to the inn superseded all else as he struggled to shuffle between bodies and hands that grabbed at him and shouted their thanks. Their gratitude became nothing but noise and their touches suffocating as he could think only of a warm bed.

~~~

  One foot after the other, he stumbled up the rise. He was rather discombobulated after a long day’s rest and, admittedly, a nightcap. Or…two. Sten had approached him at the inn while he was already a bit in his cups, to inform him that Teagan desired his presence at the windmill. He bloody well doubted Teagan _desired his presence_ anywhere, but he decided to go, before the man got his knickers in a twist.

  Truly, he felt a new man. If all it took to get him back in spirits was a warm bed and an even warmer drink, then he would follow Solena’s advice more often. The part of him that was anxious, that needed to constantly be moving toward their next goal was greatly subdued now, and he thanked her for that. He liked a woman that made it seem as though the world could stop, if only for a moment, while he caught his breath.

  The sight at the top of the rise, however, knocked the wind right out of him. To say it sobered him up would have been inaccurate, but not far off. He scowled. There they stood, framed by perfect moonlight, so close that it had taken him a moment in the dark to distinguish two bodies. He wondered if he would have been more or less surprised to see him fucking her right there on the grass.

  Whatever they were saying to each other it was clearly intimate and intense. Her with that face she made whenever she was serious. Him with that dumb fucking look he always wore. Not two inches from each other. It made him want to retch. So did the alcohol, on an empty stomach.

  She saw him approach and Teagan turned.

  “Ah, Alistair—” he began.

  “Excuse me for interrupting, I’ve always felt that three’s a crowd. Perhaps I misread my invitation to _Moonlit Courtship at the Windmill_.”

  Teagan cleared his throat rather obnoxiously.

  “You’re drunk,” Solena accused.

  “Hardly,” he defended.

  “We’re meeting to talk about getting into the castle. To help the Arl. And you’re drunk,” she pressed.

  “I’ve never felt better. Isn’t this what you told me to do? Rest? Take the edge off?”

  “ _Rest._ Not inebriate yourself.”

  “If I may—“ spoke Teagan.

  “You may not.”

  “You _may._ ” Solena insisted. 

  “Thank you. I’d like to get down to business. There isn’t much time.”

  “Oh, I bet you would.” Alistair muttered.

  “ _Enough_. Go on, please.”

  The bann cleared his throat again. If it wasn’t clear by now, it never would be. 

  Beyond the windmill was the castle and below, the village. Both asleep and peaceful and shrouded in darkness. You would never know that not but a few day’s ride from this place, a war raged that was like to bring the country to its knees. Very suddenly, he wished he was nine years old again. Young enough to not yet know Isolde’s scorn, but old enough to have some fun. He would spar with the other boys on the wet shore, with the stupidest looking wooden swords. He’d bested every one of them, sent some bruised and crying into their mothers’ skirts. Of course, he was never clouted for it. Sometimes he would sit with the town criers, giving them false news that he swore he had heard from inside the castle walls. The things he would make them say…It seemed unlikely that Eamon didn’t know about his little excursions. But either he didn’t know, or he simply didn’t care. Eamon’s love had been a confusing thing. Something he knew he should feel, but didn’t, because the man had always been so absent. Or maybe the old man truly did know that breathing in the air outside the castle, living amongst the common people, was the only thing that kept a young boy sane.

  He had rarely gotten to see the village at night. Before the sun fell, he would always have to return to the castle, to be in bed when the servants went to check on him.

  The bann was likely saying something dire. Of course, he hadn’t heard.

  How old had the dead boy been? Nine, perhaps? Ten? Did he once play with wooden swords?

  “Why did you not tell us this before?” Solena was angry at something. Teagan’s guilty face told him all he needed to know. The secret mill passage. He had used a few times, himself. He simply figured they had closed it off ages ago.

  “Because you would have _gone_! We needed you here! These people would have died!”

  “That was our decision to make!” she retorted.

  “No, he’s right,” he heard himself say. Both of them looked bewildered. “We all would have wanted to leave for the castle, and my voice would have been the loudest. Every single person in the village would have died last night. Eamon wouldn’t have wanted it, of course. He never thought so highly of himself as to put his own life before his people’s. We had to stay.”

  Solena pondered what he had said. “Maybe so. But I don’t appreciate the secrecy.”

  Teagan, wearing a peculiarly nervous face, pulled at his collar. “Then you will appreciate much less that I asked someone else to meet us here tonight. A friend, of course. From inside the castle.”

  “ _No_.” Alistair spoke at once.

  “We need her on our side, Alistair. Inside those walls it is hell, I promise you that. From the letters she writes me…”

  “I won’t see her.” 

  “You must. She will help us, she gave me her word. She knows you are here. She welcomes your help—anything to bring her husband back to her. Please, Alistair, see reason.”

  He swallowed. “I see. Now that I’m worth something to her, she’ll speak to me. Deign to acknowledge my fucking existence. How bloody kind of her. How hard for her it must have been, to agree to see me—how hard and how terrible. Excuse me if I don’t begin weeping on the spot.”

  “Alistair, please—“ Teagan started.

  “Such language is not necessary. You are here to help my husband, and my family. I come bearing all the gratitude a woman can give.”

  He had not seen her emerge from the windmill door. Clouded in shadow she approached, hands folded, back rigid. Her face as icy and unkind as ever—even through the darkness, he could see that. 

  “Isolde. Thank you for coming,” Teagan said.

  “No, no I’m not doing this.” He almost left. He really, truly did. Instead he found himself pacing between the path back to the village and the mill, his hands clasped atop his head, inanely listening to Teagan scolding him.

  “Alistair, now don’t be childish.”

  “That’s _rich_. Really rich. Don’t you _ever_ presume to—”

  “Your behavior ever since arriving here tonight has been frankly, abhorrent.”

  “Fuck you. After all we’ve done for you, and you think you can pull one over on us, get her to—”

  “You are in the presence of a Lady. Would you mind—” Teagan began.

  “No one’s pulling anything, Alistair,” Isolde spoke, accent thick. “I’ll gladly set whatever ill will we still bear each other aside in order to save my husband, a man we both love.”

  She had aged, of course. Ten years. But she was still youthful—younger than Eamon by half—and pristine. Blonde hair done up into a tight, clean bun, her dress clearly more Orlesian than Ferelden, but still with the practicality of her adoptive homeland. He could bear Isolde many grievances, but impracticality was never one of them. It was the only Fereldan thing about her, other than her family. 

  “I’m sure you do.” He eyed Teagan, who looked altogether uncomfortable, both at Alistair’s scrutinizing gaze and at likely the whole situation. Solena stood back, but not too far as to not be included. She eyed all the arguing parties with the same serious face, likely drinking in the drama like some Orlesian noblewoman at Court.

  “And… _save_ him? What do you mean save him? He’s been poisoned,” Alistair asked.

  “Yes, and left comatose. By…a mage. That is what leads me to believe there may be a way to undo the damage.”

  “If we get Morrigan to him, she could take a look. I could also help, with what little I know of healing magic,” Solena spoke up. Isolde seemed to not have noticed her before, and she frowned—a terrible thing, really.

  “And who is this woman, Teagan? I do not think we have been introduced.”

  “Lady—”

  “Solena. Amell. I spent my adolescence in the Circle Tower. I’ve been trained.”

  “And why is it then that you think you would know less of how to cure my husband than this…other woman?”

  Solena seemed to stumble for words.

  “Morrigan specialized in healing and alchemy. At the Circle. And she’s a few years Solena’s senior, I believe. She’s very good.” Alistair offered, hastily. Teagan frowned.

  “She doesn’t look—“ A sharp glare, and Teagan knew to shut his mouth.

  “Well, that is very kind,” Isolde said, though she did not smile. “Though I do not believe it will be necessary. We can discuss it later, when the castle is safe. Right now, there are more pressing matters at hand.”

  “Yes, you mentioned Connor in your letters, Isolde, but your words were cryptic. What has happened?” Teagan asked.

  “The mage caused far more damage than just poisoning my husband. The same curse that the village endured still haunts the castle. It is more than that, it is…a demon, I think. Each night the dead wake, and hunt the living. We’ve had to hide, and so far it has worked, but I fear the day that it doesn’t. And, amidst it all I think…I think Connor has gone mad, or…sick, or…something. This demon, it only allowed me to leave because I begged, because I pleaded, because I said Connor needed help! It allows a spare few of us to live. Myself, Connor, Eamon, a few of the staff, but I do not know why. It killed the rest.”

  “Connor gone mad? How so?” Alistair asked. He had never met Connor. Isolde had sent him packing to the monastery shortly before he had been born. A part of him, larger than he’d like to admit, wondered if it was not Connor’s impending birth that brought on Isolde’s sudden wrath. But Connor was Eamon’s son as much as he was hers. The boy deserved none of his old demons.

  “He won’t flee the castle. I’ve tried to get him to leave, to gather all that survive and leave through the mill, but…he refuses. Violently refuses. He lashes out at me, like he never has before. Says…terrible things. He won’t leave his father. I have no desire to abandon my husband, but I fear for my son’s safety most of all. He has seen so much death, I…it has shaken him. I don’t know what to do. Teagan, you are his uncle, and he adores you. Maybe you could…reason with him? I am at the end of my rope, Teagan, please. I beg of you.”

  “The mage who caused all this—have you questioned him? Is he in your custody? Dead?” Teagan asked—the news of Connor had clearly shaken him.

  “He is rotting in a cell. Where he belongs. He will not speak to anyone, me least of all.” Isolde spat.

  “How did he get in? What is his motive? How—”

  “An infiltrator, I believe. One of the kitchen staff. A rat.”

  “A strange man poses as a kitchen staff for days under your roof and no one notices? How is that possible?” Solena’s voice was flat, her arms folded and her eyes squinted. Isolde wore an equally sour look in response.

  “I’m sorry, my husband has been poisoned, my son is deeply ill, my home is under siege, and you want to make thinly veiled accusations? Just who is it you think you are?”

  “Isolde, please—” Teagan managed.

  “My apologies. It wasn’t meant to be veiled at all. You’re withholding information. How’s that for direct?” Solena was very attractive when she was like this, he noted. Even more attractive when Isolde was her victim.

  “You little—”

  “Isolde, please. I’ll go. For Connor’s sake, I’ll return with you tonight. I don’t want to waste time standing around bickering,” said Teagan. For a coward and a shit, he at least had some semblance of right and wrong.

  “No! This plan is ridiculous, not to mention dangerous,” Solena argued. Alistair couldn’t help but roll his eyes. Her concern for the bann was far more disgusting than it was endearing. “She says this demon has allowed only a few inside the castle to live. How do we know you will be among them?”

  “We have to try. For my nephew,” Teagan insisted.

  “Going in alone—with her—is suicide, and most likely a trap,” said Solena.

  “Excuse me?” Isolde screeched. Alistair had the greatest desire to go jump off the cliff.

  Teagan placed a familiar hand on Solena’s arm, glancing between the bickering women. “Please, Isolde…she is my brother’s wife, and I trust her. I trust both of you, but this is my decision. It is final.”

  “Thank you,” Isolde sighed, relieved, but clearly no more amiable than she was before—or frankly had ever been. “Let us go at once. The sooner I am away from these Wardens, the better.”

  “Please, Isolde, could you give us a moment? I will follow soon behind you, just wait for me.”

  She pursed her lips in a fashion Alistair was well familiar with, but granted Teagan’s request and exited silently. When the mill door shut, Teagan turned to face him and Solena.

  “Believe me, I know the danger. And I am willing to accept the risk for my family. It is…well. It is the very least I could do.” Alistair couldn’t possibly agree more. “But I’d like for you to follow me in. Discreetly, and at a distance. I won’t mention it to Isolde.”

  “I thought you said you trusted her,” said Solena.

  “I do. But she won’t like it. And I don’t want to risk her saying anything, even to Connor, that might give you away. My goal is to convince my nephew to leave the castle. Yours is to reach Eamon. If he can be transported out, then that’s what we’ll do.”

  “If not?” Solena followed. Teagan thought for a moment.

  “The mill passage leads to the castle dungeons. Find the mage on your way in. See if you can speak to him, convince him to help you lift the curse. Perhaps we won’t need to extract Eamon if we can secure the castle.”

  “What about you? What if Connor won’t leave?” she asked, concern oozing.

  “I am expendable. So is Isolde, if it comes to that. If I am in some kind of trouble, and you can offer me your aid, I would welcome it, but not if it places Connor or Eamon at risk. That is all I ask.”

  “Granted,” Alistair said. “We’ll head back to the inn, get Morrigan, and bring her back here. By that time you should be well on your way, and we’ll follow.” The three of them would make a good number. If discreet was what they were after, Sten wouldn’t help. And he didn’t want the sister anywhere near Eamon or Connor. 

  “Good man, Alistair. Thank you for this. Thank you both. The Maker truly did smile on us when he brought you here,” Teagan smiled.

  “The Maker didn’t bring me here. This was my home, in case you’ve forgotten. I came back, of my own accord, because I needed to. And I didn’t bloody do it for you, or her.” Teagan had lifted a finger, ready to respond, but Alistair had already turned and left down the rise, boots kicking dust behind him. 

~~~

  “Well, I don’t trust that shrew,” said Morrigan as she slipped on her gloves. They walked back up the path together, to the mill, where Solena likely waited. “What makes her presume the boy’s uncle will have any more success than she did, his own mother? It seems terribly suspicious.”

  “Then you’re on the same page as the rest of us,” he agreed.

  “As you, Alistair? I didn’t think you knew what a book was, much less have read one,” she casually retorted. He sighed.

  “Can we not do this tonight?”

  “Oh, in a foul mood, are we? Is it the way that bann leers at your lady Warden?” the witch prodded. She had no idea when to stop, did she? Like some unruly, undisciplined child, but with the evil mind of a woman.

  “Shut your mouth, and let’s just do what we came here to do.”

  “Since arriving in this reeking village we have done anything _but_ what we originally came here to do, and this excursion is no exception. We should have left when we had the chance. If it wasn’t for your sulking about and feeling sorry for yourself, we likely would have.”

  He had had more than enough. Alistair stopped abruptly on the path and turned to glare at her. “Look, when I ask for your opinion, trust me, you’ll know. Until then, there’s no reason we shouldn’t just avoid interacting with each other at all costs.”

  She narrowed her eyes. “That is perfectly fine by me.”

  “Good.”

  “Good! Now turn around, would you, and let us not waste any further time.” 

  He huffed, shook his head and did so. He swore he heard “ _buffoon”_ muttered behind him, but he pretended that he hadn’t. He refused to give her the satisfaction. Or, for that matter, to deal with her at all. _Not tonight_ , he had begged. _Just not tonight_. Evil witch couldn’t even give him that.

  He stopped again. There was something else he had thought of. Something…that he needed to say now, before it was too late.

  “Are we to do this all night—”

  “Just, look, if…if he’s…” The words wouldn’t come out. He looked at her and saw her confused and expectant. He sighed. “If we make it up there, and there’s…there’s nothing you can do, then just…just tell me first. I should be the one to tell his family. It should…it should be me, not you.”

  “Surely they do not know I am an apostate heathen from the forbidden Wilds who eats the bones of human young?”

  “Very funny. _No._ And it should stay that way. But it’s not…it’s not that. It’s…if Isolde is going to claw someone’s eyes out, it should be mine, not yours. Maker knows she’ll see it as my fault anyway— _‘I didn’t get here soon enough’, ‘I didn’t try hard enough’, ‘I never loved him’_.”

  He shook his head—stopped himself from saying any more. Eamon hadn’t died yet. What would he say if he saw him speaking like this? Digging the old man’s grave before he had bothered to check his pulse. It was pathetic. He should save his tears for the next night, when he would be back in the warm comfort of his cups, and there would be no yellow-eyed witch to mock him and laugh.

  “Very well,” she said. Funny. He had expected more. 

  He gave a curt nod, and they continued in silence up the rise. Teagan had long since left—likely after some heart-wrenching farewell—and Solena stood leaned against the mill, staring out at the moon and the lake. The moon was full tonight. He wondered if Morrigan would turn into a tall hairy beast and terrorize the village. To his dismay, when he turned to look at her she was much the same. 

  The secret passage was still there, sure enough, towards the back of the mill. It seemed to have been covered by hay and old crates to remain inconspicuous, but they had been moved to grant Isolde and Teagan passage through. He let the girls climb down before him and he shut the hatch and grabbed the torch off the wall, but even with it one could only see a few feet in front of them, so Solena and Morrigan conjured light of their own as well, and they walked together in a pack. The tunnel ran under the village and under the lake and was very clearly intended for one person traveling alone. The air was thick and dusty and hot, and the space cramped, much more so than he remembered. 

  A mile or so later they arrived at the end, with a similar ladder leading up to a hatch. Once again he let the girls climb first, and put the torch back on the wall. 

  The dungeons, as remembered, were no more welcoming. Lighter, certainly, but dank still and clearly never tended to. Loose stones and cracks in the wall shot moonbeams onto the floor. The lake was still tonight, but he remembered being able to hear the water’s movement from down here as a boy. 

  “He—hello? Is someone there?” A meek voice called, and echoed against the walls. Solena’s head snapped to the source. She bolted, robes rustling, down the long hall. He shared a look with the witch, but both quickly followed after her. 

  When Solena reached the cell on the left at the end of the hall she turned toward it. He was not yet close enough to see the look on her face, but he watched as she slowly approached the cell and wrapped her hands around the bars, leaning her head against them. 

  She and the prisoner spoke in soft voices that he could not make out. Alistair, brow furrowed, picked up his pace. 

  “You betrayed me.” he distinctly heard her say.

  “I’m sorry, I’m so, so sorry. You have no idea. But I can—”

  “And now what? Poisoning the Arl? _Why_?” her voice was breaking. She was upset—near tears, maybe.

  “I know how it looks.”

  “You _don’t_. Not the half of it. You’re a blood mage, Jowan. You’ve terrorized this family, the whole village. Countless people are _dead_!”

  Alistair’s brows shot up. He pushed past her, just to get a look at him. He needed to _look_ at him—needed to see. 

  And he was disappointed. He was a sad shell of a man. Dirty, unshaven, weak, and altogether avoiding his gaze.

  “Hey! Hey look at me! _Look at me!_ ” he shook the bars, yelling.

  “Alistair, don’t.” Solena spoke.

  “You know him?”

  “Yes, I do.” At her words, Alistair saw red. She wouldn’t look at him either, not at first. But as if sensing his boiling rage, she met his gaze, and tempered him. “I do,” she repeated.

  A sad sound came from the cell—a weep; a wail, almost. And the weeping went on and on, quiet but powerful. Alistair shook his head, let go of the bars and spit on the ground at the man’s feet. The man pleaded and apologized in his small, broken voice, and though he looked, Alistair was glad to find no pity on Solena’s face.


	19. Anora II

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ***Trigger warning: mentions of rape and strong derogatory language. Discretion advised.***

# Anora

"Maker bless his body and soul. Grant this man, your holy servant, your chosen King, a seat beside your golden throne. Andraste guide him and keep him in the next world—a better world, your golden city. And in his early passing, may you turn your gaze onto your children and guide them as well. May they find your light in these uncertain times, and may they ever carry with them the memory of their golden King. In the Maker’s name, we pray.”

  Though the winds were cruel and the speaker dull, the prayer was kind. Cailan at least would have liked it. Grand Cleric Elemena, though old and half-deaf, did the service, as was custom for kings. He would be buried in the royal tomb, beneath the plots of his father and mother, and with room for a plot of her own beside his, as she had wanted it. It gave her peace that in the grave at least, she would have something to look forward to.

  Her first thought upon seeing the body of course had been that it looked nothing like him. This must have been some trick—some sorcerer’s double. Her late husband was sickly, pale and gaunt and near-green. Such words could not have been farther from describing the Cailan of her memories. But she allowed herself her flights of fancy only briefly. It was him. And it all made such terrible poetic sense—that he should die and leave her now, alone. Surely there was no other woman in Thedas who deserved it more than she. 

  Through her blackened veil she saw all the lords and ladies—the very same who had jeered and shouted at her only days ago, and who had so eagerly traveled far and wide to see just what they could _gain_ from her husband’s passing—who had come to gather now at his funeral. They looked properly sad, all, and how they sniffled and cried and put on such a show. They all departed once the prayer was done, ladies leaning on their husbands as they led them back inside the palace and out of the cold. Anora could bear it far longer, so she remained.

  Her father had thought it silly to hold the ceremony in the gardens in such disagreeable weather, but Cailan had loved them so, so she told him she would hear none of his grievances. One summer he had grown her roses—bushes upon bushes—and when they bloomed, on their wedding anniversary he had picked them all and decorated the entire royal suite, before placing the last one daintily behind her ear. He had dubbed her “The Rose of Ferelden” that day—had announced the silly name to the entire Court, in fact. Anora had thought that was absurd, but the public seemed to love it. Perhaps it was the attention that had made her so uncomfortable, but still so very giddy when she thought back on it. Had she ever thanked him for that day? Please, Maker, let her have thanked him.

  Soon it was only her and her father standing above the corpse. He stood beside her, in perhaps the only solidarity he could truly offer. He clearly had no taste for the wind, and thusly placed a firm hand on her shoulder and followed the crowd inside. 

  They had dressed Cailan in golden armor—not, certainly, the same which he had died in, as she was told that was beyond repair. But the royal smith had fitted him in something rather like it, ornate and kingly and emblazoned with the Theirin crest, and of course, as she had insisted, golden. He looked peaceful. It was not the face she remembered, but she preferred that it wasn’t. That was a different Cailan—her husband. The body in front of her was a dead king. It was easier to look at, that way. 

  The Grand Cleric emerged from the crypt, and was clearly surprised to find the Queen still standing there. 

  “Will you set him in the tomb now?” Anora asked her, loud enough so the old woman could hear.

  “Yes, Your Majesty. It’s all ready for him.”

  “Please. I would like to watch.” Elemena hesitated in her look, but was ultimately agreeable. Two templars came out of the crypt behind her to haul the body, and Anora followed them back inside, remaining thoughtfully out of their way.

  His coffin, like the others, was carved with his stoic likeness on the top. She thought the expression carved in stone looked much like the one he wore now, and she liked that. They buried him with his sword and crown, and finally Anora watched and listened as stone slid against stone, sealing it all into place.

~~~

  The palace had of course been redecorated with Cailan’s passing. Gone were the silly colors of spring and in their place were rugs and tapestries of black. It was a project she had overseen—micromanaged, admittedly. The staff had been alarmed at her insistence on it. Such affairs were never usually her concern. But with her father’s decree, she had been shuffled off to the side in her responsibilities of late. All ravens went to him, all messengers, all diplomats—everything _._ Her father knew her better than this—knew how she detested helplessness, yet he had taken all purpose and direction away from her in one fell swoop. 

  In her chambers, her handmaidens disrobed her and removed the golden pins from her hair, letting it tumble down her back. They had run her a bath to warm her, and scented it with jasmine. The sun was setting on Denerim, and its dark yellow hue cast a dim light through the wooden slats of the window above the tub, and onto the cleanly-made canopy bed on the opposite wall—desolate and grim. Looking at it made her hollow.

  She wondered if her father would notice if her grief swallowed her up and ate her whole. She could hardly stomach to look at him since Court had convened, and they hadn’t said more than five words to each other since. He should have more compassion in him than to allow her to suffer like this. He had lost Mother. So had she, certainly, but she had been very young. And to lose a mother so young is not the same as losing a wife—a husband. Grief in one’s younger years is formative, she had learned. Grief later is finite. It ends who you once were, and you become someone else entirely. Or someone you used to be. 

  Regency suited her father, of course—just as it had ten years ago, when he had been Cailan’s regent. Maric was lost—a wreck in The Waking Sea. Cailan was young yet, not quite a man. Two years passed with her father ruling this country. He was no shrewd politician, and had little patience for the petty squabbles of court or the appeasement of his bannermen, but he was strong. Under her father, stability reigned. When the two years had ended, Cailan pleaded with her father to let him finally mourn his. Then the funeral was held, and a month later, Cailan was crowned, and they were wed. 

  It should unnerve her, she supposed, how easily her father had slipped back into the role—and her into loneliness. Like greeting an old friend. Whilst she bathed, Cailan used to lay in their bed, barefoot, shirt undone, head in a book. It would always be some history. Every few pages he would glance over the cover and smile at her. Just to look at her. And she would look at him more than he knew. She would study him, his every feature, and never grew tired of a one. Now, it was as though he had never been. Her happiness had been like a dream—a fleeting euphoria. But Anora had always thought herself a realist, and now she had her wish. She had woken up back in reality, where she belonged.

  It had not always been such a happy marriage, but she supposed in that respect her marriage was not so unique. That was what she had liked so much about being married to Cailan. It seemed so ordinary. So unremarkable. It was an arranged marriage. Maric and her father had been so close that it seemed only natural. Her father brought her to court when she was ten, and Cailan only five. It was terribly uncomfortable, and she held the royal toddler in low regard. As they grew older they only continued to test each other. Cailan, unprepared and boyish, shirked many of the duties of kinghood that he did not have a taste for. Anora, on the other hand, had been groomed for the job her whole life. The understanding between them was difficult, at first. But love came with the passage of time. So very naturally, like a flower that bloomed. 

  Cailan was buried now, though. She supposed she should let him rest. 

  She stood from the tub and threw on her robe, walking now to the window, opening it just a crack. Cailan always had it thrown open, as wide as could be. It brought him closer to his subjects, he thought, to live and breathe in the sounds of the city. Anora had always disliked the noise, but she often allowed her husband his small pleasures. In Gwaren, sounds of the sea and the harbor were always near. She preferred those. In Denerim it was shouting merchants, squealing pigs, clanging metal and horses’ hooves. The city was no glittering jewel. It didn’t need to be. Cailan had brightened it, and she had strengthened it. 

  The sound of a raven flying above reached her ears. She knew it carried a message that her father would momentarily unravel—news she would not hear for days, perhaps weeks. She did not care if it was the marriage of some sixth-born from West Hill—she would hear it now. While she still drew breath, passivity was not an option. She tightened her robe and threw up her hair, not bothering to close the door to the royal suite upon her exit.

  A passing handmaiden, mortified, dropped the folded towels in her arms and shrieked. “Your Grace!” Anora paid her no mind, storming barefooted in the opposite direction, far down the hall, past at least twenty stationed guards, two advisors and three servants, all with the most ridiculous looks on their faces.

  She reached the ornate double doors at the end of the hall, petrifying the guards that flanked them. She pushed them open herself. Her father did not startle at the noise, only raised his head slowly to acknowledge her. Hastily, the two guards closed the doors behind her.

  “Well? What did it say?”

  “Anora,” he merely noted.

  “Did you hear what I asked you?”

  “What did what say?” He lowered his nose at her, his glasses sliding down slightly. When she was a girl, she had laughed at him, thinking they were too small for his face. He had feigned offense, but never changed them for new ones. He used to wear them when he read to her.

  “You haven’t read it, then. Good. We can read it together.”

  He removed his glasses, and sighed. A fire burned warm behind him. “Anora, I feel terribly as though I am being left out. What is this about?”

  The smaller door on the right wall then opened, and Arl Howe—now Teyrn—stepped through, widening his eyes at Anora’s presence. “Your Majesty. My liege.” He bowed. “I apologize for the intrusion, Your Majesty is not decent, I can return at a later—“

  “No, stay,” her father demanded. “My daughter eagerly awaits whatever news it is you bring.”

  Howe, confused, furrowed his brow, sputtering out a response. “Your Majesty, I’m terribly sorry to disappoint, but my news is rather dull—directed for your Lord Father. I’m afraid you must be mistaken at its nature.” He chuckled weakly, clearly looking for a similar response from her father.

  “I am mistaken at nothing. I am still the Queen, last I checked. If a raven comes through this palace, I will hear it.” 

  The weasely little man seemed frozen to the spot, the letter in his hand nearly crushed by his nervous grip. “I do not mean to offend, Your Majesty, but…” he started. “When your father declared himself your regent, he overtook, however temporarily, the duties that—”

  “And it is my place to grant or deny her request to stay, not yours. State your news and do it quickly, I have little patience about me tonight.”

  She could hear the deep swallow from the new Teyrn of Highever from across the room. 

  “Sire, the news…it has to do with the Grey Wardens.”

  Her father straightened up at that. “What? Have the Orlesians regrouped? Is it war they want?”

  “No, Sire, it…it’s Fereldan Wardens, in fact.” Howe glanced in Anora’s direction. She might have missed it if she were not scrutinizingly eyeing both men’s faces for every reaction. “Two. That…survived the Battle at Ostagar, it would seem.”

  “Would it _seem_ , or would it _be_?” Her father spoke through gritted teeth, rage bubbling beneath the surface.

  “It is what…my sources tell me, Sire. You know them to be reliable.” Howe managed.

  “ _Spies_ ,” said Anora.

  “I…yes, Your Majesty. Patriotic men and women, loyal to me, who have proven exceedingly trustworthy,” Howe assured.

  “Spies where? Inside our own borders?” she asked.

  Howe fumbled for an answer, opening and shutting his mouth many times before speaking. “It…would not do for me to compromise their positions, Your Grace.”

  “What aren’t I being told?” she demanded, hands forming to fists at her sides.

  “The Queen is tired. Perhaps we should brief her on the matter another day,” spoke her father, dismissing her all too easily and pretending to turn back to the papers on his desk.

  “You shall brief me _now._ ”

  That halted his movements, but not in the way she had hoped. He still turned down his nose at her, regarding her with little deference at all. He looked at her as he did that first morning upon his return, sitting across from her at breakfast. The only way he knew that could hurt her.

  “Very well,” he said, folding his hands in front of him. “The Arl of Redcliffe has taken ill, as you well know. We are monitoring the situation from a comfortable distance.”

  “ _Why_?” 

  “In the unfortunate event that he does not recover, Ferelden will be short one more powerful diplomatic leader in the face of the war to come—the largest Arling in the country, with Orlais on one side and the spawn-infested south on another. It is our duty to ensure that Redcliffe does not fall into a squabble for power in what is already a time of such great uncertainty, would you not agree?”

  The room was still. Teyrn Howe had not moved a muscle. Anora raised her chin.

  “Of course,” she said.

  “That these Grey Wardens are nosing about Redcliffe now is troublesome, indeed. Tell your source in Redcliffe to send frequent updates. We shall want to keep them away from the castle at all costs.”

  “Of course, Sire.” Howe bowed his head. “Your Majesty.”

  Anora did not watch him leave, but heard the door shut carefully. 

  “Are you satisfied?” her father asked.

  “What ails Eamon?” she asked in turn.

  “I do not know,” he responded. “If I had to take a wild guess, I might say age,” He raised an eyebrow at her. “..and call it divine justice.”

  She swallowed. There was so much, in this instant, that she wanted to say to him—to ask him, to beg of him. She wanted to shout it all at the top of her lungs, just so it would reach him. But it wouldn’t, she knew. Nothing she said had ever moved him to do anything. Not once, not in thirty years. He was some immovable object. Some statue. 

  “Sleep well, Father,” came out instead.

  “Anora,” he called, before she could reach the door. She turned.

  “Don’t ever do this again.”

  She was out the door before she could say something he would likely make her regret.

  Her bare feet padded angrily against the carpet, back down the hall—the terrible long walk of shame of a child sent to bed without supper. 

  She stormed back into the royal suite—her handmaidens were still in the process of draining the tub and setting out fresh towels. They froze at her appearance. She screamed at them to leave, if for no other reason than so she didn’t have to look at another _face_ for the rest of the night. The two girls scrambled to grab the buckets of bathwater and rushed out the door. She slammed it behind them.

  Breathing deep, she was able to find some semblance of composure. She tiptoed across the floor and grabbed an abandoned towel from the ground, padding at the dampness of her hair, and thinking.

  _Why would he lie to her now?_

  Why, for one, keep that weasel Howe so close? To watch him, perhaps? For she knew her father could never trust a man like that. But why confide in him with secrets he would not even divulge to her? She feared that answer. That her father kept things from her was hardly a revelation. Never had she thought her father would do anything but what he thought was best, for her and for Ferelden. But the air in his office had been so still, so tense. And when she had practically begged for his reassurance—for some semblance of truth, he could give her none.

  Eamon. What did Eamon have to do with any of this? His absence at Court had been felt, it was true. What had Bann Teagan said? _If Eamon were here…_

  Would he have believed the rumors so easily? Eamon was a cunning man. It was always said that Eamon would fight a man in Court with the same fury with which her father killed one on the field of battle. Would he have thought her father a murderer? Would he have thought _her_ a murderer? 

  It was her shame to admit that she had let the Arl become an unknown factor to her. For all the greatness spoken of him, he had spent very little time in her presence. She knew not the sort of man he was, his values and agendas, how he behaved at dinner parties, if he loved his family, if he loved his country. Now it seemed that soon it would not matter. Still, her ignorance nagged at her.

  A soft knock came from the door and she grew irritated.

  “ _What?”_

  “A l-letter, for you, Your Grace.” 

  She turned her head up, set the towel down. _Father._

__ “Slip it under the door, Clara. Unopened, if you wouldn’t mind _._ ”

  “Of-of course, Your Grace. I would never…”

  “ _Now_!”

  She heard a dreadful squeak and saw the envelope slide quickly into her chambers, as the pattering of slippered feet grew fainter down the hall.

  She bent down to pick up the parchment and examined it. It was indeed unopened—blank and unaddressed. She hastily ripped open the envelope to reveal another underneath it. This one had been opened, and had been addressed to her father in what looked to be the scrawl of a child. The letter inside looked much the same—spelling errors throughout penned by an unsure hand. 

  But the letter was from no child. Valendrian had sent it—the alienage’s Elder. She started back at the top and read slowly, committing each word to memory.

_   To His Royal Hiness Logane Mac Tir  _ (the title was incorrect, but she forgave him that, too),

_               Tragedy has befallen our alienage, and we beg for your ade and swift justiss. Ever sinse the Arl rode off to war and, as rumor has it, perished there, his son and erre Vaun Kendells has terorized our communeity. Last week, in the midst of a happy seremony, my granddaughter’s marage was halted by Vaun and his merry men, who attaked our men and took many of the women, including my granddaughter, to the Arl’s estate. As you well now, elves are not alowd to carry wepons, so we werr helpless to the attak. The city gard turnd theyr cheeks. I forgiv them that, as it was theyr own Arl who comitted the crime. That is why we turn to you. In our rage, I admit we forged meegre wepons of wood and stone and sent our yung, fit men to storm the estate, only to demand our women returnd to us. We harmd no one. By the time we arived, the Arl and his men had had theyr fun, and my granddaughter and one other was dead. They reeleesed the others to us, and gave them each a singal copper soverin, “for theyr truble”, and threw us out on the streets. I rite this with a hevvy heart, and hope you and your daughter will forgive me my penmanship. I greeve for my granddaughter, and hope in your own time of greef you may understand. I now well the grave charges I ackyuse the Arl of, and now that no one will lissen but you and your loving daughter, who has done so much for us. Maker bless you in thees tymes and may you find it in your hearts to bring this savage murderer and rapeist to justiss. Maker bless the late King Cailan. _

_                                                                                                                           ~Hahren Valendrian _

  Anora swallowed stiffly. There had always been whispers at Court of Vaughan’s sadism. She had never met him, herself. She had only dealt with his father, Urien. He had been listed among the missing at Ostagar, and so Vaughan, his only son, had taken up his mantle as Arl. News that he was unfit was certainly upsetting, and this, preying upon her people like a lion did sheep… _this_ would cease. 

  And her father had entrusted this to her, to investigate and act accordingly. She clutched it to her chest, like the doll he had given her when she was eight on a return trip from Denerim. Her heart stirred, for the first time since Ostagar. He was not lost to her, after all.

~~~

  Two knocks at the door, and she opened it as her handmaiden had her fist poised for a third.

  “Ahm—my apologies, Your Grace, am I interrupting your morning rituals?”

  “Morning rituals? I’m your Queen, not a priest. Come in and hurry, would you?” 

  The frightened little thing stepped in with her silver tray, which Anora bid her set on the vanity. Anora sat down at the stool, continuing to fervently brush her hair. Her handmaiden poured her tea and set out a biscuit before looking rather alarmed and reaching gently for the brush.

  “Your Grace, if I may, I can do that for you—” 

  Anora dodged her reach. “I’ve got two perfectly good hands of my own, thank you. Please do something useful and go ready my horse.”

  “Your…your horse, Your Grace?”

  “My horse.”

  “Not your carriage?”

  “I said horse, didn’t I? Maker’s breath— _go!”_

__ The girl left in nearly a trail of dust. Anora found herself having to bite her lip to stifle the giggle. Cailan would have chastised her with a smirk, for torturing those girls so. That one was new. She would likely have to track down another one, and they would bash their pretty little heads together for a while as they hopelessly tried to decipher how to saddle a horse. No matter. She would come to their rescue and do it herself.

  It was not yet dawn. She had bid to be woken just before sun-up, but it seemed she could not sleep any longer in her elevated state. She had been up near half an hour now, dressing in her slacks and riding gear and writing her father a quick note on her whereabouts. He would not be pleased with the short notice, but he knew her well enough to not be surprised by her swiftness in this matter. 

  Her hair pulled back in a simple red ribbon and her cloak strewn about her shoulders, she finished her tea and made her way to the stables, past the kitchens on the opposite end of the palace. The halls were near empty this early in the morning, and she had no plans on drawing attention to herself. Upon arrival she gave her handmaidens quite the fright but spoke to them no more, promptly readying her chestnut mare and riding out of the palace gates, hood shrouding her.

  Denerim was only just waking. The smell of bread baking filled her lungs, dogs barked, and the beggars were groggy but awake, reaching for her horse from the streets and pleading. She supposed poverty and hunger would not afford one sleep. 

  The alienage was the farthest ride from the palace to any other point in the city. It was a small, walled-off and sequestered area, across a bridge and away from the hustle and bustle of the market square or noble dwellings. Far enough away that most did not have to acknowledge it as part of the city at all. There was no risk that some unknowing, red-cheeked noble would stumble upon it on his way to buy a fat pig to feed him and his portly wife. 

  When Arl Vaughan had marched into the alienage, he had done so knowingly, intent on the murder and rape of elves. That much she knew.

  If Denerim was the ugliest city in the world, the alienage was its wart. Cobbled-together wooden homes still unfinished lined the streets—tall things that stacked one on top of the other. It made it so the city could fit as many elves as possible in the least amount of space. Sewage and other trash littered the dirt road. _Squalor_ was too polite a word to describe the state these poor people lived in. Anora had worked tirelessly to help them as she could. Since becoming Queen she had provided them with ample healers and medicine, donated funds for community projects, and increased the presence of the city guard—for all the good that had done them. But in visiting the place it seemed she had hardly made a dent.

  The sound of her horse’s hooves on the bridge of the alienage was enough to spark a few lights in the windows of the homes that looked over the moat, and even more still as she trotted down the narrow street. 

  Valendrian’s home was at the very end of the street, just before the village square that wrapped itself about a great oak tree—the alienage’s one redeeming quality—framed at its base in stone masonry with candles surrounding it. It was likely the grandest, tallest tree in all of Denerim. It was a magnificent, proud thing. She knew not what it meant to them, though had always wanted to ask. For some odd reason, she felt it was not for her to know. Cailan likely had. He often visited the alienage—to the fury of his advisors—and had encouraged that she look into getting rid of the alienage altogether. It had, of course, escaped her husband that nothing was ever so simple.

  The elves, as she had learned, did not care much to intermix with the rest of the city. Instead, it was reform within the alienage that they so deeply wanted. Reform in the city guard. Reform in sadistic lords and ladies who took from them as Vaughan had. And that was what she would give them.

  She remembered when she had first seen an elf. A little thing she was, with teeth missing and pigtails and so, so many questions. Gwaren had had an alienage, like most major cities. Her parents had not kept elven servants. She had first seen one on the streets. She had pointed at one, tugged at her father’s hand and asked him about _that man’s ears—_ long and pointed. After rightly scolding her for her tactlessness, he took her aside, hands on her shoulders, and told her what he could. That elves were much like human beings, but also very different. That the second Exalted March had driven them from their homelands and enslaved them to us. That slavery was illegal now most everywhere but Tevinter, but the elves had still been forced to recant their heathen gods and accept Andrastianism to be able to live alongside us. Those who refused were called Dalish, and had chosen to live as woodland savages rather than among civilization. As a woman grown it was her great shame to admit she still knew little else.

  Valendrian had been kind with her, and patient. When she knew he did not have to be. It amazed her how little disdain he held for her and for her family, and for truly anyone at all. She hoped she could find it in herself, one day, to be as good as these people, in spite of all their pain and loss and sickness and hunger. Perhaps she was not made of the same sheer will. Goodness like that, when it came so easily to people like Cailan, and these elves, had always seemed to escape her. 

  The Hahren now opened his door and stepped out to meet her. She dismounted and removed her hood. He bowed, though it was admittedly sloppy and uncertain, as his bows had always been. It had never bothered her.

  “Greetings, Your Highness. I must admit, I did not expect a personal call in such chaotic times. You have my gratitude.”

  “And you my sympathy.”

  “And you mine.” The white-haired elf closed his eyes in sadness. “The late King was much adored by this alienage. Especially the children. I fear a future where his great love and understanding is absent from the world.”

  She found her mouth opened but did not give way to words—only the sharp intake of breath. _So do I,_ she thought. _I fear it more than death. And yet, all the same, it seems it has come to pass._

  The bluntness of his words distracted her only for a moment. She shook herself from her fall into grief, removing her gloves and swallowing, hard. 

  “Where is your niece this morning?” she asked. Valendrian was the village Elder, that was true, but still old and not so quick as he used to be. When she worked with the alienage it was usually his spritely niece, Shianni, that she dealt with. She had taken a liking to the girl. She was quick-tempered, but intelligent and headstrong. She made for refreshing conversation.

  “Still recovering.”

  “Recovering?”

  “My niece, unfortunately, was among those taken captive by the Arl. It is…hard for her to speak of the time she spent there. And she was in such poor condition when we found her.”

  “I’d like to see her, if that’s alright. I reckon she would like nothing more than to help justice run its course.”

  “I expect the same. You are, of course, free to do as you please. I must warn you, however, that she is still quite weak.”

  “I shall keep that in mind, I assure you.”

  She picked up her cloak and walked up the steps to their hovel, being sure to rub her muddy boots on the wooden planks. Inside it was rather dismal looking—a candle was lit on a small wooden table but the home was otherwise unlit. Small droplets of water could be heard falling from the ceiling into a small bowl—likely left over from the rain they had had two nights ago. Against the far wall she saw a figure lying in bed wrapped up in a sheet. From the vibrant red hair peeking out from the cloth she knew it to be Shianni. A man was hunched over at her bedside, her hand clasped in both of his.

  The man grew flustered at Anora’s presence and stood, again executing a dreadful sort of bow. 

  “Your Majesty,” he said. 

  “I don’t believe we’ve met,” Anora said. She held out a hand for him to kiss which he did not seem to notice, or understand. She quickly lowered it, bemused.

  From the bed came a sort of laugh, albeit a weak one. “That’s my Uncle Soris. Forgive him, he’s never seen a woman he thought was half as pretty as you.”

  “Shianni, why that’s—” he retorted, then met Anora’s amused smile with a pair of bewildered eyes. “My apologies, Your Majesty.” He moved to bow once more, before promptly exiting through the front door.

  “Why, you’ve scared him half to death. He’s probably in a worse state than me, now. Sorry for not getting up to bow or curtsey or…whatever. I would on one of my better days. This…isn’t one of them.”

  Anora softly shook her head. “There’s no need to apologize.”

  “I know why you’re here,” the girl said, after a moment.

  “You do?”

  “Yes. You want someone to go up in front of a bunch of posh nobles and tell them what that bastard and his buddies did—to me, to my friends. To my cousin. A-and I want to. I do. But I don’t know if I can. Or if I should.”

  Anora sighed, and situated herself on the stool where Soris had sat. She was worried this was the response she might get. She had come prepared with a few motivational quips, though looking at her now in this state, they all sounded painfully inadequate.

  “It won’t all be as graphic as that. I’d like to make it as easy as possible for you,” she tried.

  “Easy? You want to parade me in front of the same people who’ve been to fancy dinner parties at his estate—who spit at me in the street—in the slim chance that they’ll believe me. I’ll be lucky if they throw tomatoes instead of rocks.”

  “If I don’t have a witness to speak against him in Court, you’ll have no chance at all.” Shianni looked defeated at that. Anora found her hand and placed her own atop it, comforting her as her uncle had done. “You’re right. It won’t be easy. It may in fact be very, very hard. But I’d like to try. And it was my hope that you would help me.”

  Tears shone in Shianni’s eyes, and the redhead wiped them away with the back of her hand, clearly ashamed. 

  “I want to make him pay,” she nearly whispered. “The scars he gave me won’t ever heal. Not really. You weren’t there, you didn’t see…”

  “I cannot imagine,” Anora agreed. 

  “I took it for granted that we’d never get justice. Maybe we never will. But you…why do you help us?”

  “All people born in my country deserve the fairness and justice they seek. And what was done to you was an atrocity that should not go unpunished.”

  Shianni looked at her curiously, and seemed to be thinking. Then she nodded, fiercely. “I’ll do it,” she resolved. “I’ll be your witness, if you think it’ll help. For the cousin I didn’t get to bury.”

~~~

  A week passed while Shianni healed and interested noble parties gathered to attend Court—notably fewer than she had anticipated. Likely most saw the whole ordeal as a joke, and could not be bothered to crawl out of their lavish estates so soon after the last session for the sake of a few dead elves. It made no difference. Law and other such matters were decided based on majority. It merely meant she had fewer people to convince that the delegitimizing of an entire noble house was a good idea. 

  Even worse offense was the attendance of many of the alienage’s residents. Elves were not typically allowed outside of the alienage unless serving under a noble family at their estate, and were certainly not allowed at Court, but Anora had demanded exception. She was granted it, with some sway, she suspected, from her father, who had not once spoken outright to her about the matter. He had not even announced his intent to attend the session. 

  Anora, for the first time since her father’s declared regency, would take her seat at the throne. At present, she paced in front of it, reciting her talking points in her head. Shianni stood a bit off to her left beside a small podium, dreadfully uncomfortable having to endure the accusing glares and whispers of the nobles. _Don’t worry_ , Anora wanted to reassure her. _Eventually, you’ll learn to bear it._

  Though they stood in their own private box off to the side, the nobles huddled away from the small party of elves in attendance as though they carried the plague. It might have disgusted her to watch, had she not expended so much effort simply getting them to stand in the same space together. The awful tension in the throne room would have to do.

  Anora dressed in her mourning black still, but something relatively plain and simple. She did not want the attention to be on her, after all. No lace or jewels or embroidery, and her small, ungarnished golden crown had served just fine. Shianni and her relatives had dressed in their best, she suspected. In such times as these and with as controversial a hearing as this was, she could hardly commission the royal tailor to fashion garments for them all. Not to mention the insult to the elves. They had clearly tried—they each wore some color, mostly hints of green or black. Shianni wore a bright green ribbon in her cropped hair, to match her large, beautiful eyes. It was really quite becoming. 

  All awaited Arl Vaughan. That was where the pit of her stomach lay—in whether or not he would show at all. The palace had received no response from the Arl of Denerim’s estate to their call for a hearing. Of course if he did not show, his testimony was forfeit. The Court would decide his guilt or innocence without him. But perhaps, like most other nobles, today’s hearing did not worry him one bit. _It should,_ she thought. _They are all fools, who have forgotten that I did not die with my husband._

__ It was then that the doors at the end of the throne room barged open, startling every soul in the place to attention. In stormed Vaughan, alone, looking equal parts angry and arrogant. Anora folded her hands in front of her, waiting for what was sure to be an onslaught of bitter words.

  “You are late,” she declared. “You are lucky indeed that we did not decide to start without you, Arl Vaughan.”

  He smirked and snorted, arriving at last before her not mere feet from the few steps leading up to the throne. “I must admit, I thought the letter I received from the palace was a mere prank, and had resolved not to come, until this morning when I woke to see, outside my very window, _street urchins_ dressed up like nobles shuffling off to Court. Now I see that I was right after all—it’s a practical joke you’ve arranged for me here, my Lady, make no mistake.”

  Ser Bryton, who stood to the right of her platform, slammed his spear to the ground. “You will bow before your Queen,” he spat. 

  “Do not mind the Arl so much, Ser, I’m sure the exhaustion from his walk here has merely caused him to forget himself. And my title,” she said. 

  “Where is your liege Lord? Him I’ll bow before. Certainly he could not take time away from _war_ to indulge his daughter playing Princess.”

  Though he was of an age with herself, with each word it seemed more and more as though she were talking to an insolent boy. Anora had to stop herself from laughing tears of joy. Let the man speak his peace much longer, and her job would be done for her. She could see the nobles turning their irritation from the elves at their side to the man before her with every jab and jeer.

  “Did you prepare a statement to make today in your defense my Lord, or have you come to plead guilty?”

  He laughed in mockery. The lines that formed on his face made it even more unpleasant to look on than it was before. “Guilty? To what? What has that elf bitch there convinced you all of?” He gestured to Shianni, who winced. 

  “I believe assault, rape, and murder are the charges, my Lord. Along with disturbing the peace at the elven alienage.”

  “I regret to inform you that she’s filled your pretty little head with poison, my Lady. Dumb cunt hasn’t a clue who I am. I’ve never once been to the alienage—and why would I? Have any of you?” he asked the crowd gathered. “Filthy place is ridden with disease.”

  “You would take care not to use such language in my presence,” Anora said.

  “Never heard of a cunt before, Princess? Your late husband knew them well.”

  “ _Enough!”_ she shouted, and the room quieted, perhaps more at his words than hers. Vaughan was not affected by her at all, he merely continued to leer as she seethed. “Contrary to your belief, this is a trial, not a dockside tavern. The men and women behind you have gathered today to decide your fate.”

  “No, they have come to see the _circus_. And it seems you have given them all front-row seats.” He turned to the elves gathered to his right. “Look at them all! They think they’re _people._ ”

  “Where are the rest of your men?” Shianni spoke, startling the audience, and Anora. “The rest, who tortured and killed my cousin after you raped her. Were they too cowardly to show their faces?”

  “How _dare_ you presume to speak to me, _bitch!_ ”

  “And what did you do with the bodies? Throw them in the river for anyone to see, too brazen even to bury them?” she continued.

  “What country do we live in where this elf has not been arrested for treason and heresy?”

  “Ferelden, my Lord. A nation that sees justice done.” Anora spoke. “Lords and Ladies of the Court, the Arl has made his case quite clearly. I ask you now to cast your judgment on a man who has deemed himself unfit to rule a pigsty, let alone this great city. We are nothing if not a proud people. If you vote not for the sake of these poor people whom he has wronged, vote for the sake of your country, and whether or not you believe this man fit to represent it.”

  She did not miss Shianni bristle at that. She hoped she could forgive her. If she did not speak to the nobles’ best interests, she could not know with any certainty how the Court would sway.

  Bann Hammond of Liften, an older man with a well-groomed grey beard, spoke from the crowd. “We have all heard tell of Arl Vaughan’s sadistic ways. And we have all dreaded the day when he would succeed his father in Court, and we would at long last see the truth of them. What I have seen today is far worse than I could have ever imagined. This man here is a disgrace to Fereldan nobility. Your Majesty, I vote for his immediate imprisonment, and the stripping of all his lands and titles.”

  “I second that! I stand with you, Your Majesty!” came another cry from Bann Evelyn of Darkmoor. 

  “Dragon’s Peak stands with Her Majesty, the Queen!” The rest came after, one after the other. Vaughan fumed.

  “I do not recognize your authority in this matter! Where is Teyrn Loghain? I demand to see the Teyrn at once!”

  “Consider your demands met,” her father boomed from above on the topmost balcony. She could not say for how long he had stood there. “And I bring with me a gift: a warrant for your arrest.” He removed the piece of parchment from his jerkin and waved it in the air. Even from here, all could see his signature. “Seize him.”

  Vaughan sputtered and cried out rather pathetically as her guard closed in on him. He fought, of course, but not very well.

  “Ser Bryton,” Anora called.

  “Your Grace?” he moved from overseeing Vaughan’s arrest to her side in an instant.

  “Escort Shianni to the Arl’s estate. Have her identify the other men she spoke of. Arrest each one she names. Place them in separate cells, so they may not speak with each other. When you are finished, escort the elves back to the alienage, see they arrive safely.”

  “Your Grace,” he bowed. Clearly unsure of how to approach Shianni, he merely said, “Mistress”, and gestured for her to follow. Shianni did not look at her as she did. From the box, Valendrian nodded his gratitude, consoling a crying woman who might have been his wife.

  When she glanced up at the balcony, he was already gone. As Vaughan lashed out, screamed and yelled obscenities at her, she sat back on the throne and watched as he faded from her view.

~~~

  In the light, the small, jeweled golden band sparkled, almost blindingly, casting beams onto her chamber walls. It was her last memento. The last piece of him she would ever have. He had slipped it on her finger so gently that day and his smile had been perfect and white. She had been the luckiest girl in Thedas. Even her father had shed a tear, though he would later deny it. She had seen.

  Three short raps came at her door, and she bid them enter. 

  “Your Grace,” her steward bowed. “Dinner is ready for you in the dining room. It is duck this evening, ma’am. With lingonberries and brussels sprouts.”

  “Will my father be joining me?” she asked.

  “Teyrn Loghain took his dinner in his study about an hour ago, Your Grace.”

  “Early? He must indeed be busy.”

  “Certainly, with the ceremony this evening.”

  She turned. “Ceremony?”

  Her steward cleared his throat. “Why, indeed. I thought you knew, ma’am. He assured me you did not care to attend.”

  She stood at once, nearly trampling over the small man on her way out the door. He called after her, but she could not hear him. She only heard the ringing in her ears. Her black skirt swirled behind her as she dashed down the hallway, moving with such fervor that she did not hear the footsteps around the corner, stumbling as she hit the man’s shoulder with her own at full force. Blinking at the invasion, she attempted to brush herself off and continue down her path, but the man smiled at her—a sickeningly charming look. And at the sight of his pointed ears she very nearly gasped.

  “Your Majesty,” he bowed deeply and beautifully. He then stood, tossing an apple from his hand and catching it again, taking a bite from it all while gazing at her. “My apologies. I was simply taking a walk. This palace is so wonderfully large. One could so easily become lost in it.”

  He was so close to her now, and she could smell him. He smelled of leather and steel. And blood. His thick accent permeated her ears. _Antivan._

  “Enjoy your evening,” he said, bowed slightly in farewell, and turned, tossing his apple in the air casually as he strolled away. 

  Beside herself, she watched him walk even as she turned to leave. Her mind felt hazy, processing the encounter one detail at a time, until she reached the only possible conclusion. Every second propelled her feet faster and faster towards the throne room, down the long hall, past portrait after portrait of the dead kings and queens before her. All of them smarter. All of them more cunning. All of them less completely and utterly gullible. 

  She threw open the door to the balcony—the same balcony her father had stood upon not three days before. At that point, the sight before her was no longer a surprise. The day she had gotten the dreaded raven—the one that signaled death—she had taken the strip of parchment in her trembling fingers and ripped it to shreds, watched it burn among the logs. She had screamed, she had sobbed, making sure first that there was not a soul in her wing of the palace who would hear her. She thought she would die in that room, that she would lose her breath and that it would never come back to her. That one could, in fact, die of a broken heart. 

  She had not cried for her husband since. She swore a vow to herself after that night—that that one moment of pure, unadulterated human grief would be all she could allow herself. But oh, how she wanted now to let herself feel that again.

  Below, her father, clad in armor, tapped his sword on each of the man’s shoulders, and he stood before him.

  “May the Maker protect thee, Rendon Howe, Arl of Denerim.”

**Author's Note:**

> I am rachelamberish on tumblr. 
> 
> Comments and questions always welcome. Thanks for reading. :)


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